Archer and Holmes
by Kasey of Gallifrey
Summary: When John moves in with Sara, Sherlock is left in search of a new flatmate. He soon meets Ellie and makes her the new Replacement Skull. Their companionship is threatened when a serial killer emerges and makes things personal. Sherlock/OC. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

It had been nearly a month since John had moved in with Sara. With no one around to pester him all day, Sherlock found that it was increasingly difficult to stave off the inevitable post-case boredom. He took up talking to the skull again, but he had grown so used to someone responding that the hunk of bone seemed quite unsatisfactory with its silence.

"You need to find yourself a new flat-mate," John commented one day. He was sitting in his favorite chair as he always did when he decided to visit his friend. "This place is a mess and you could use the company."

"I'm perfectly fine on my own, thank you," Sherlock replied curtly. Still, he had to admit that acquiring a new companion would soon be necessary. With John focusing on his relationship and his actual job, there was no one to assist Sherlock on cases, and Sherlock desperately needed an assistant.

John sighed and shook his head slightly. He glanced over to the couch where his friend was draped across it. Sherlock had resumed his usual "thinking pose" as evidenced by his slightly furrowed brow, closed eyes, and prayer-like steepling of his hands.

"Is this about the case then?" John inquired. Though he hadn't been actively participating in many investigations recently, he still held an interest in what the consulting detective had been up to.

Sherlock flung himself into a sitting position and ran a hand through his hair impatiently. "Yes, of course it's about the case. Matthew Lawrence murdered his wife and his mistress in cold blood, and yet there's not a scrap of proof. If I could just get a look at his wallet, I'd be able to get him for this."

"Well, you can't get them all, mate," John offered.

The only reply was a faint mumbling that sounded like, "Maybe _you _can't."

"You'll figure something out, though. There's got to be some way to prove it without stooping to pick-pocketing. I'm sure he'll have left something else behind that'll prove he's the murderer."

Sherlock's eyes were bright as his head snapped up. He completely ignored the last sentence and focused on what came before it. "That's it! I can't believe I didn't think of that before. Pick-pocketing, so brilliant and so simple." Sherlock berated himself for not coming up with this idea sooner. He'd never had any issues taking things off of Lestrade and the other Yarders, so why should stealing from a murderer to gain evidence be any different?

"No, Sherlock, stealing is bad," John scolded, immediately regretting what he'd previously said.

"But the man's a ruthless killer," Sherlock argued, clearly undeterred. "And," he added with an eager smile, "I know exactly where he'll be tomorrow night. It's the perfect chance to take it." He had searched Lawrence's home earlier in the week and noticed a calendar that Mrs. Lawrence had hung on the wall. Apparently, before her untimely demise, she and her husband had made reservations at an Italian restaurant, made obvious by the note on the calendar that read, "Date night; Maggiano's 7:30 P.M."

John sighed, resigned. He noticed the determined and stubbornly set look in Sherlock's eyes and recognized that there was little he could do that would change the detective's mind. "Fine. Then where's Lawrence going to be tomorrow night?"

Rather than answering the question, Sherlock picked up his mobile, searched for the number of the restaurant, and dialed it.

"Maggiano's Italian Restaurant," a reedy voice answered. "How may we help you?"

"Yes, hello," Sherlock said. "I was wondering if the reservation under 'Lawrence' for tomorrow night is still active. It'll be for 7:30."

There was a moment's pause before the response came. "Yes, sir, that reservation is still listed."

"Brilliant." Sherlock hung up quite rudely after that. He turned to John. "Lawrence will be at Maggiano's Restaurant. He and his wife made plans to go there before she was killed, and I'm certain he'll still be there."

"Why would he still go? His wife just died," John pointed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This man murdered two people in cold blood. Do you honestly think he's the least bit bothered by that?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Of course he's not. No, I'm certain Lawrence will show up. He'll probably have a date if his past record's anything to go by."

John wrinkled his nose. "That's just distasteful." He thought for awhile before adding, "But you can't go to that restaurant by yourself."

"And why not?"

"Because, Sherlock, that place is really romantic and such. Everyone brings a date there, and having some random bloke sitting alone in the corner will look a bit suspicious."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and thought over this new development. "Then you'll have to find me someone to go with," he stated reasonably.

John raised an eyebrow. "You want me to set up a blind date? Absolutely not. I'm not going to let you use some poor girl as a prop in your plan when I know she'll probably be reduced to tears by the end of the night either from your callousness or your blunt deductions."

"John," Sherlock whined. "You can't honestly be putting some girl's feelings above catching a murderer. She'll get over it; he might kill again. Get your priorities straight!"

John's resolve was wearing thin. Sherlock _did _have a point. This man had already killed two people. Who's to say he wouldn't strike again? And another murder victim was a far worse consequence than some hurt feelings.

He acquiesced. "Fine, I'll see what I can do." John knew he was going to regret subjecting some poor young woman to a whole night of dealing with Sherlock, but it was for noble reasons, wasn't it?

~oOo~

The next morning John called Sherlock. He knew his friend wouldn't answer the phone—"I prefer to text"—so he was prepared when it went to voicemail after the second ring.

"Hi, Sherlock," he said. "I've found someone who's willing to go out with you tonight. Her name is Ellie Archer, and she's a medical examiner from America. She just moved to London and she doesn't really know anyone other than me and Sara, so please take pity on the poor girl." There was a slight pause as John waited for the warning to sink in. "Ellie will meet you at 221 B tonight at 7:00. _Be nice_."

As Sherlock listened to the message, he couldn't help deducing what he could from the little information he'd been given. He had never heard of Ellie Archer before; this coupled with the fact that John called her "someone" and not a friend indicated that she was not in fact one of John's acquaintances. She was probably one of Sara's associates, though certainly not a family friend or anything of the like. No, it was more probable that Ellie Archer and Sara had met at some sort of medical conference. They must have kept in touch after that.

He cut off his thoughts right there. All of this was fairly useless information. After all, that evening would be about Matthew Lawrence, not Ellie Archer. She was just means to an end.

Sherlock would have to delete all that extraneous knowledge later. For the time being he decided to occupy his time with crap telly and memorizing Matthew Lawrence's photo. In a few hours, his plan would be set in motion and he would have another successful case to add to his ever-growing repertoire.

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><p><strong>Please review! Let me know what you thought of this chapter, give constructive criticism, or suggest what you want to see happen later in the story. Much appreciated!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the reviews on the previous chapter! I really appreciate them. Well, to be honest, I'm a bit nervous for this one. I tried my best. Please let me know what you think of it when you've finished reading. Suggestions for improvement are always welcome. Enjoy!**

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><p>Sherlock had just finished a cup of tea when Mrs. Hudson walked in. Her eyes were alight with something akin to excitement and she was grinning at him in that proud, motherly way.<p>

"Sherlock, dear, there's a young lady waiting downstairs. She says she's looking for you."

"Ah, yes, send her up if you would."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a congratulatory smile. She clearly was under the impression that this outing was an _actual _date and was pleased that Sherlock was capable of such ordinary rituals. He rolled his eyes as the landlady trotted off to fetch Ellie Archer. Honestly, the woman had known him for several years. How could she not yet understand that he didn't _work _with other people? Sherlock and the rest of the population were about as compatible as water and oil. Despite observing this first-hand, Mrs. Hudson still chose to believe that he was at least somewhat normal.

Ellie walked tentatively through the door. She looked around and smiled when she spotted Sherlock.

She was about his age, probably a bit younger than his own thirty-four years. She had sandy hair—it was too light to be called brunette but possessed too many darker hues to be blonde. Her eyes were light brown with some greenish flecks present near the middle. She was short, only about 5'4" or so. She was slender too, though not unhealthily skinny like many young women those days. Her calves were well-muscled, suggesting some sort of background in sports—probably football, he reasoned. She had a few fading bruises on the exposed portions of her arms. She must have undergone some sort of attack. Not an abusive relationship, though; there were no old injuries so it was a onetime occurrence. Her slim fingers were fiddling with a portion of her dress, but she wasn't fidgeting all that much other than that. This showed she was a bit nervous, still not as anxious as one would expect from a blind date. Conclusion: she was either an easygoing person or she didn't feel that a lot was riding on this singular date. Most likely the latter. Sherlock couldn't help but silently agree.

"Hi, I'm Ellie," she greeted in her American accent, cutting off Sherlock's train of deductions. She extended a hand and upheld her polite smile.

He offered a fake grin in return. "Sherlock. It's a pleasure to meet you." He shook her hand. _A whole night of keeping up this act_, he thought bitterly. _How dull_. "We should probably get going. Our reservations are for 7:30." He grabbed his coat and scarf, leading the way out to the street.

The cab ride to Maggiano's was awkward to say the least. Sherlock had never been very skilled at small talk, and it didn't seem that Ellie was either. He asked her what she did for a living, how she knew Sara and John, and how she liked London so far. Each of these dull inquiries was answered with an equally dull response. Medical examiner (which he already knew), met Sara at a medical conference (again, already figured out), and London is great (standard, boring answer).

"So why did you decide to move out here?" he asked after a dreadfully long silence. How did people normally keep up this type of conversation?

Ellie shrugged and averted her gaze. "I guess I just needed a change of scenery."

_Lie_, Sherlock's brain instantly told him. Upon closer examination he decided that she wasn't completely lying. It seemed as if she was just deliberately avoiding giving a full answer. Sherlock didn't call her out on this. From his own limited experience and extensive research, he had concluded that most people typically did something like this on a first date. Stretching the truth or skimming over certain topics seemed to be an accepted part of the custom.

"So what is it that you do?" she asked.

Sherlock pondered this for a split second, wondering if he should give away his real profession. _Perhaps not_, he reasoned. After all, he had no idea who she was, and divulging that sort of personal information could prove to be a mistake. "I work at a bank," he told her, thinking of the most incredibly mundane job ever.

"Oh, that must be interesting," she replied. To anyone else, the comment might have appeared genuine, but Sherlock could tell that she thought the profession was boring.

They sat in silence for awhile. Thinking of topics was becoming far too much work. Sherlock hated to waste any precious time pondering such ordinary things. Luckily, it seemed that Ellie was having a similar realization. Rather than attempting to pursue the conversation further, she appeared content to just gaze out the window without talking. Sherlock did the same, allowing the case to take up his full attention.

_If only we could just stay this quiet for the rest of the evening_, he thought.

At 7:25, the cab pulled up outside the restaurant. Sherlock opened the door for Ellie as they entered Maggiano's. He led her up toward the host's desk.

"Hello, welcome to Maggiano's," a freckly teen in an ill-fitting uniform greeted. "Do you have a reservation this evening?"

"Yes, it should be under Holmes," Sherlock replied. He was lucky to have gotten a reservation on such short notice. This particular Italian establishment was always fairly crowded. Luckily, the manager—a burly fellow named Felice—owed Sherlock a few favors.

"Right this way."

They were led to a table in the corner of the room, just as Sherlock had requested. He pulled out Ellie's chair for her which earned him a grateful smile. He sat down with his back to the corner of the room—the perfect vantage point.

He vaguely remembered ordering fettuccini alfredo and asking Ellie to tell him a bit about herself. The majority of his focus, however, was put into scanning the rest of the room for Matthew Lawrence. As his "date" drabbled on, he soon spotted a man fitting Lawrence's description entering the restaurant with a pretty young woman. Sure enough, when the man turned around, Sherlock was able to confirm that this was in fact the very murderer he was hunting. Lawrence and his guest were seated at a table very near that of Sherlock and Ellie. This proximity at least would make his task somewhat easier.

Their meals were set down in front of them, and Sherlock attempted to eat. He found it extremely unsavory to eat during an ongoing investigation, so it was difficult to down his pasta. Ellie was still talking through mouthfuls of her own lasagna, and he replied just enough to keep the conversation going. He kept his gaze focused on the woman across from him, but he never stopped tracking Lawrence's movements.

About halfway through their meal, Ellie stopped eating suddenly. She dropped her knife and fork on her plate and chuckled slightly.

"What's going on, Sherlock? You've been staring at that man the whole night," she said, flicking her gaze over toward Lawrence. "If you're batting for the other team, why'd you agree to this date in the first place?"

"Well, I actually _don't _'bat for the other team,' as you so nicely put it. I assure you, I'm completely straight."

Ellie raised an eyebrow in a show of skepticism. "Then what could possibly be so interesting about that guy? Because, trust me, I've noticed how some stranger is getting all of your attention and you've just been half-assing your responses to what I'm saying. It's a bit offensive to be honest."

Sherlock briefly wondered how she had noticed all of this when he thought he'd been hiding it so well. He snuck another glance at Lawrence and noted with some trepidation that the other man seemed to be finishing his meal much too quickly. At this rate, he'd be out of the restaurant before Sherlock and Ellie paid the bill.

With time being of great importance now, Sherlock decided to just give Ellie a brief overview of what was happening. Perhaps she would be more cooperative that way. "That man over there is named Matthew Lawrence, and he is the prime suspect in a murder investigation. I think he killed his wife and his mistress, but there's no way to prove it. I really came here so I could get the evidence I need to put him in prison."

Ellie's eyes widened in surprise. "Do you really work at a bank?"

Sherlock scoffed proudly. "Don't be absurd. Of course not. I'm a consulting detective, only one in the world. Whenever the police are out of their depth, which seems to be their natural state, they bring me in. Like with the Matthew Lawrence case."

She furrowed her brow, processing all this new information. "So this isn't a real date then, is it?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. He was so not looking forward to the inevitable hurt feelings that were to follow. He had just confirmed that this girl had put herself out there for no reason. It wasn't that he felt bad about lying or getting her hopes up. Rather, he knew he would be very inconvenienced by her undoubtedly emotional reply.

Much to his utter surprise, Ellie breathed a sigh of relief. "That's actually good to hear. I'm honestly not looking for a relationship at this point. And no offense, but this hasn't been the most interesting date."

A grin slowly spread across Sherlock's face. "Would you like to make it more interesting? What do you say, Ellie, want to catch a killer?"

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><p><strong>Please review! All feedback is welcome.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

The plan was fairly simple. Ellie would cause some sort of distraction that would draw Lawrence's focus. Then, with the man concentrating on something else, Sherlock would nonchalantly walk by and grab his wallet.

"Go," Sherlock commanded, and Ellie gracefully rose from her seat.

She made it appear as though she was heading toward the toilet, and she "tripped" just as she passed Lawrence's table. No one paid much her much attention, but Sherlock noticed that the rug that covered most of the floor was now bunched up awkwardly in that specific spot from where Ellie had kicked it when she nearly fell. A waiter carrying a bottle of wine was walking toward her, and she casually bumped into him. As he was already slightly off balance from his collision with Ellie, the waiter gracelessly tripped on the uneven portion of carpet. The poor man spilled wine all over Lawrence's table, causing a great fuss to arise.

Part A of the plan was complete. Sherlock smoothly glided over toward the commotion, making sure to stay away from the heart of it. As he passed, he delicately slipped his index and middle fingers into Lawrence's pocket and swiftly pulled out his wallet.

He grinned over at Ellie and held up his prize. She returned the accomplished smile. Sherlock gestured toward the door, indicating that they should probably leave. Ellie shook her head and pointed toward their vacated table. They hadn't yet paid for their food and she clearly felt guilty about this. He rolled his eyes and hurriedly dumped enough money on the table to cover their meal. Whether the bills came from Sherlock's own wallet or from Lawrence's wasn't important.

As Ellie followed Sherlock out of the building, it was clear that she was giggling.

"That was ridiculous," she said.

Sherlock chuckled a bit in return. "I suppose it was." He combed through Lawrence's wallet when they were safely outside. Upon finding the evidence he longed for, he grinned. "Yes! It's all here, all the proof I need."

Ellie's fit of giggles died down a bit. "How exactly are you planning on using that as evidence? I mean, you _stole _it from the guy."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "As far as anyone is concerned, I picked it up off the floor, where it must have fallen out of his pocket. With every intention of returning it, I looked inside to see who it belonged to. That's when I found conclusive evidence that this man killed two people. It was a happy coincidence."

"Of course," Ellie muttered. "And what happens when Lawrence reaches for his wallet to pay for dinner?"

"Thanks to your little distraction, he'll probably insist that his fee be waived. After all, he can't _possibly_ be expected to pay when his meal was so rudely interrupted by that spilled wine."

It took Ellie a moment to figure out that Sherlock was sarcastically mocking the man and not being serious. She smiled. "That was fun," she commented after a bit of silence.

"Hmm," he replied with a nod. He seemed far more interested in catching a cab than in what she was saying.

She sighed. She looked around and something in the restaurant caught her eye. She smacked Sherlock's arm to get his attention. When he turned to send her a withering glare, she pointed to the building just behind them. "Look, Lawrence is leaving now. We should get out of here."

Sherlock nodded once. "Agreed."

He grabbed her hand and began pulling her down the street. Their quick walk soon turned into a brisk jog as Lawrence was seen moving toward them at a fairly alarming pace. Clearly he hadn't been as clueless about their whole operation as they'd hoped.

Sherlock pulled out his cell phone and dialed Lestrade's number. When the DI grumbled a greeting, Sherlock said, "Ah, Lestrade, good. Drop whatever you're doing. You've got an arrest to make." He gave the man a vague sense of their location, and fortunately, it seemed that the detective inspector and Donovan were already in the area. "Brilliant. Oh, and you'd better hurry." He hung up and shoved his mobile back into his pocket.

Beside him, Sherlock could tell that Ellie wasn't enjoying their little run very much. Stupidly, she'd worn heels to the "date" and was consequently having some difficulty keeping their pace. He decided that this was as good a spot to stop as any and slowed down, tugging her hand so she would do the same.

"We'll hold him off here," he whispered to her. "We just need to stall him for a bit."

The couple turned to face Lawrence. He sauntered up to them, looking equal parts devious and irked.

"Can we help you, sir?" Ellie asked, sounding innocent. "Is something wrong?"

"You bloody well know," Lawrence snarled. "Your boyfriend here stole my wallet, and I'd really like it back now." He held out his hand.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock replied coolly. He may have appeared calm externally, but on the inside he was humming with adrenalin and desperately hoping Lestrade would get to them soon. Honestly, having to fight Lawrence would be such a waste of energy.

"You bastard!" Lawrence cried as he lunged toward them.

Sherlock stepped forward to block Lawrence's misguided blow. The murderer took another swing, which Sherlock easily dodged and matched with one of his own. The man appeared undeterred as he continued to charge forward. Sherlock landed a punch to his stomach, then to his jaw. Lawrence managed to get in a lucky kick right to the consulting detective's gut, effectively knocking the wind out of him.

Sherlock stumbled back a bit, attempting to recover. With him momentarily out of the picture, Lawrence decided to go after Ellie. Before he could so much as make a move to harm her, she had drawn back her fist and punched him square in the nose. Blood dribbled sloppily down his face, and Lawrence looked positively infuriated. He seemed to decide that he was through playing fair. He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a short blade. The knife swung wildly in the air as he backed Ellie up against a building. He swiped the side of her face with the dagger, leaving a crimson gash behind. Ellie hissed in pain and kicked Lawrence in the crotch as he got closer. He dropped to the floor with a very unmanly whimper.

The sound of sirens cut through the air. Sherlock and Ellie breathed matching sighs of relief while Lawrence looked up with unease. He managed to drag himself off the ground and stumbled away.

Two police cars with blaring sirens pulled up.

"Freeze," an officer commanded. Sherlock instantly recognized the voice as that of Sally Donavon. She, Lestrade, and two other unimportant officers had their guns raised and pointed directly at Matthew Lawrence.

Despite clearly having nowhere to go, Lawrence looked around with shifty eyes as if preparing to make a run for it.

Ellie, who had clearly had enough physical exertion for one night, was in no mood to chase after him if he started getting way. Instead of giving him the opportunity, she kicked his legs out from under him right as he took his first step forward. Lawrence tumbled to the floor with a satisfying _thud_.

Lestrade and Donovan made their way over to the man sprawled across the cold cement. They cuffed him and shoved him in the back of one of the cars.

"Impressive move there," Sherlock commented to Ellie, still slightly breathless.

She shrugged but blushed slightly under the praise. "I used to play soccer. I guess I got good at kicking people."

Sherlock smiled briefly before turning to Lestrade. He tossed the DI the wallet he had nicked off of Lawrence earlier. "I believe you'll find all the evidence you need in there."

Lestrade caught the leather pouch and looked it over. "How did you get this? Sherlock, did you steal from this man?"

Sherlock looked shocked by the accusation. "Of course not. I found it on the floor, picked it up, and managed to find proof that he killed two people only a few days ago. It was all completely legitimate."

Lestrade was clearly skeptical. He seemed to notice Ellie for the first time and asked her, "Is this true?"

She didn't hesitate before giving her reply. "Yeah, someone spilled wine on that guy's table. I guess the wallet must've fallen out of his pocket in all the commotion."

Donovan approached them, looking between Sherlock and Ellie with unabashed curiosity and confusion. "Who's this then, Freak?"

Ellie briefly smiled at Sherlock despite the pain it must have caused the slash on her cheek. "I'm his date," she said.

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><p><strong>Reviews, as always, are welcome and encouraged.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all the positive feedback I've gotten so far! It's really lovely. Do you wonderful readers have any suggestions for the future of this story? Any thoughts and comments will be greatly appreciated.**

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><p>Roughly three days after their odd encounter, Sherlock sent a text to Ellie: <em>How long has this man been dead? SH. <em>A picture of a startlingly blue corpse was attached to the message.

_I'd say 4 to 5 days. EA_

Sherlock grinned, pleased. Now that he had all of the facts, the last and most important being the time of death, he was able to conclusively tell Lestrade to arrest the brother. Of course, he probably could have just asked Anderson for this information, but honestly, why would he trust _Anderson's _opinion? Instead, Sherlock had texted John and demanded Ellie's number. As long as John was out of his commission, Sherlock knew he needed a new doctor to assist him on cases, and having already met a perfectly suitable medical examiner, he saw no reason to let her expertise go to waste.

_By the way, how'd you get my number? EA_

He typed a quick response to Ellie's inquiry: _Unimportant. SH_

"Texting your girlfriend, Freak?" Sally said by way of greeting. She sauntered through the door and sidestepped the dead body to stand in front of Sherlock.

He stepped around her and exited the room, calling over his shoulder, "Jealous, are we, Sally?"

~oOo~

From then on, Sherlock took up asking Ellie for help on cases. He'd never actually brought her along to investigate with him, but he would send pictures of various portions of a dead person, and she would identify the medical significance. They hadn't seen each other face to face since that disastrous "date," but it soon became clear that she was filling the role of Sherlock's newest assistant.

The best part, at least for Sherlock, was that Ellie hadn't yet gotten a job. She claimed she didn't need any extra money yet and was content to just sit in her flat all day. While it may have offered her some relaxation, it offered Sherlock complete, continuous, and uninterrupted access to her mind. With no job to distract her, he could text at any time and would get a response almost immediately.

Nearly two weeks after their first meeting, Sherlock finally decided to bring Ellie in to the actual crime scene. While he had no issue with texting and no real need for the company, he couldn't deny that not enough vital information was conveyed via messages.

_Need you to take a look at a crime scene. Meet me at 221B Baker Street. SH_

_On my way. EA_

He was pleased with how quickly she had agreed, and sure enough, ten minutes later, Ellie gently knocked on the door.

"Come in," he shouted from the couch.

She slowly walked in, clearly unsure what to do. "Well, here I am. Where's this crime scene?"

"Follow me." He grabbed his coat and scarf before heading outside to get a cab. Once they were seated comfortably inside, he began to explain the case. "Over the past month, three women have been found dead, and this morning there was a fourth. They were all between twenty and thirty-seven-years-old."

"That's quite a range," she commented.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, it's a bit odd for them to be so spread out. What's even stranger is that these four victims don't all fit a certain physical type. Plus, there's no external link to them at all." He paused and then added, "At least not one that Scotland Yard has found."

Ellie furrowed her brow. "But you still think they're connected?"

"Oh, I _know _they are. Each time, the killer has left a cryptic little note. It's always a short poem and it seems to be meant to taunt the police." He pulled out his mobile and handed it to his companion. "This morning I got a text from DI Lestrade. He's been working these cases. You met him when we caught Lawrence."

Ellie nodded as she recalled the grey-haired, tired-looking detective inspector. She shifted her gaze down to the phone she was holding. On the screen, there was a text Sherlock had received from Lestrade about an hour earlier: _Another victim found today in abandoned warehouse. This note's different. Get over here ASAP._

When they arrived at the scene a short while later, Sally was waiting for them just behind the garish yellow tape that sanctioned off the area.

"It's in bad taste to bring a date to a crime scene," she informed them as Sherlock and Ellie approached.

"Sergeant Donovan, lovely to see you as always," Sherlock greeted with a fake smile, pointedly ignoring her previous statement. "I take it you remember Ellie?"

She nodded once and Ellie offered her a brief smile. For a moment, Sherlock was almost positive that Donovan would protest his newest companion's involvement in the case, but rather than putting up a fight, Sally raised the tape and allowed them in.

The old warehouse was rundown and clearly hadn't been used for quite some time. A few feet away from the door, the body of a young woman had been dumped without ceremony. She had dark hair and a legitimate-looking fake tan. Her whole outfit was expensive, and judging by the glittering earrings that were still in place, the killer had not been interested in robbing her of what she wore.

"The victim's name is Sarah Kimble," Lestrade informed them when he saw the pair enter. He didn't look surprised at all to see Sherlock's guest. "She was twenty-seven, born in Essex. Her throat was slit with some sort of sharp blade, just like all the others. She's also got several newly formed bruises, which were also seen on the other victims."

Sherlock crouched down beside the corpse, his gaze intent.

Ellie stood awkwardly, unsure what she was there for. The consulting detective hadn't yet given any indication that he required her opinion on something, so she didn't know what to do with herself. A man entered just then, though Sherlock didn't acknowledge the presence of the newest addition.

"Hello," the man greeted Ellie. He had a nasally and rather unpleasant sort of voice with a fat, rat-like face. His dark hair was styled in the most unattractive way imaginable, and he had cold, dark eyes. "And who might you be?"

"Ellie Archer," she supplied out of politeness.

He snatched her hand and shook it slowly, probably in what was meant to be a flirtatious manner. It ended up just feeling creepy. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm—"

"Hands _off_, Anderson," Sherlock interrupted sternly, glowering at him with unhidden disgust.

The man, Anderson, glared at Sherlock rebelliously but withdrew his hand from Ellie's. "What are _you _doing here?" he spat.

Sherlock was unaffected by Anderson's harsh tone. "I believe I'm doing your job." He stood up to his full height and walked around the body. "How long do you think she's been dead?" When Anderson opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock held up his hand and promptly cut across him. "Not _you_; I was talking to Ellie."

She mumbled some sort of apology to Anderson before bending down to inspect Sarah Kimble. "I'd say she was killed about ten hours ago."

Sherlock nodded as if he'd already known. "Exactly. My guess is that the killer abducted her sometime last night. He hit her with a heavy object to knock her out; he wouldn't have drugged her. He must've taken her to an isolated field of some sort. My guess is that he chased her around for quite some time before he murdered her. So then, he thrives off the fear of his victims; he enjoys watching them run for their lives."

"How do you know?" Ellie questioned. Honestly, how could this man possibly know that the dead woman wasn't drugged? There was no real way to tell until they'd run her blood-work. And where did he get a field from? That seemed completely unfounded. Ellie was also unsure how Sherlock could tell that Sarah Kimble had been chased before her death. It seemed as if he was pulling these facts from thin air.

Sherlock's expression clearly said, "Why on earth would you doubt me? How can you be so simple-minded as to not understand?"

"Well," Sherlock began, "first off, look at her shoes—very expensive flats. They've just come out, which means the victim couldn't have had them for all that long. But pay close attention to the soles—they're worn and stained as if they've been well-used. Conclusion: she's been running enough to damage her brand new shoes. Those are designer flats she has on, so why would she possibly be exercising in them? That means she was chased, running against her own will. There are grass stains and pieces of dried grass stuck to in the toe of her shoes. That proves that she was in a field of some sort. That particular grass is unique to a certain region, and with a microscope and an hour or so I would be able to pinpoint the exact location. There won't be much to find there but I'm sure it'll be of some use."

"That's incredible," Ellie said, an impressed smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Sherlock looked momentarily taken aback by the compliment. John was the only one who had ever really praised him for his abilities before, but even he had dropped off on that front after awhile. Sherlock had almost forgotten how nice it was to have someone appreciate his deductions.

He flashed a brief smile in Ellie's direction before continuing. "Next look at those bruises. She got those shortly before her death (I've done extensive work on the subject and I can confirm that this is true). Because each of the other victims also had similar bruising, we can assume that the killer somehow causes this. None of the other victims showed any signs of being drugged, so we can infer that the murderer will keep the same pattern with this one. He doesn't drug them, which means he wants them to be clear-headed and aware for the whole ordeal; he takes them to isolated locations, chases them, and causes bruises before killing. I think he enjoys the pain and the fear. He likes the feeling of control he gets when he hits them, and the adrenalin rush of chasing them, and the excitement from their terror. In all, he's a psychopath, and a dangerous one at that."

Anderson groaned. "Just what we need, _another _psychopath. Maybe you and the killer can get together and exchange notes. He can be your new playmate."

Sherlock's answering glare would have made even the bravest of men cower. As Anderson was most certainly _not _the bravest of men, he backed down and scurried away, mumbling some lame excuse.

Lestrade coughed awkwardly, clearly having something to say.

"What?" Sherlock snapped viciously.

Ellie kicked his shin and whispered, "Play nice."

He rolled his eyes but seemed to take on a less hostile tone when he added, "What is it Lestrade? Something to add?"

"Well, actually, yes," the DI responded. "You really should read the note that he left this time." He took an evidence bag out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

Inside was an uninteresting scrap of paper with six neat lines typed out:

_Sherlock Holmes, come out and see  
><em>_The violence surrounding you and me._

_A new and equal foe is what I want,  
><em>_Someone brilliant who I can taunt._

_You fit that part quite wondrously.  
>Sherlock, come out and play with me.<em>


	5. Chapter 5

Ellie awkwardly hovered around the body. Just out of earshot, Sherlock and Lestrade were engaged in a very intense-looking conversation. Well, it had started out as a conversation, but now it seemed to mainly consist of Sherlock throwing insults at Lestrade, which the DI handled quite admirably. While they were discussing the case, Ellie was left with nothing to do but stand around.

Sergeant Donovan swooped in beside her. "You should stay away from him, you know."

"Who—Sherlock?" Ellie asked, though she already knew the answer.

Donovan nodded. "I used to think he was a psychopath, but he managed to live with John Watson for six months without killing him, so I guess that's not true. Still, he's dangerous, and I wouldn't make a habit of hanging around him."

Ellie shrugged, not really sure what to say. Of course, she wouldn't heed the other woman's warning. It was for her to decide whether or not she wanted to continue associating with Sherlock, and for the time being, she enjoyed their somewhat twisted and very unusual relationship. Sure, she and Sherlock didn't know each other all that well, but they had gotten on fine so far, and Ellie was attracted to his mysterious lifestyle. She wanted the two of them to become better friends, and honestly nothing Donovan could say would deter her from pursuing that.

Apparently, Donovan could read it on Ellie's face that she wasn't convinced about the evils of Sherlock Holmes. "Just…if he asks you to move in, say no. You shouldn't surround yourself with his kind of crazy; you'll end up going mad yourself."

"Hmm," was the only response she gave.

"Ellie, come on!" Sherlock shouted, tearing her concentration away from Sally. He was at the door and was eagerly waving her over. "We're going to Scotland Yard to look at the evidence from the other cases."

She trotted over, trying her best to ignore the glare that Donovan was shooting in her direction.

As they hopped into the back of a cab, Sherlock turned to her. "This is okay, right? You didn't have anything else to do today?"

Under normal circumstances, he would never have been this considerate. Sherlock had always kept people for as long as he required their assistance, never bothering to check if it fit into their schedules. Still, after he had become friends with John, he quickly realized that friendship demanded at least some form of consideration for the other person, and though he would have denied it vigorously, Sherlock was in fact trying to make a new friend in Ellie.

She shook her head. "I've got nothing going on today. I'm all yours." She blushed when she realized that this may have sounded a bit odd. "For the case, I mean. I'll help on the case."

Sherlock smiled a bit and leaned back in his seat. His mind was buzzing with information, and he tried to sort through it all. A new serial killer was certainly exciting, especially one that had personally called him into the game. Oh, this would keep him occupied and out of boredom for days!

_No_, he scolded himself. _I shouldn't think like that. People are dying_. And though he knew that it was very wrong to treat this lightly, it was impossible for him to ignore the thrill and anticipation that ran through him as he thought of this new game.

When they arrived at Scotland Yard, Sherlock was promptly given every scrap of evidence that had been collected over the past four murders. Admittedly, there wasn't much to be going on. Sherlock's new adversary didn't leave a lot behind.

Ellie looked over the consulting detective's shoulder as he worked. She would point out anomalies on the objects collected from the crime scenes, and Sherlock would quickly tell her that what she noticed was completely irrelevant to the case. He didn't sound annoyed, but he did end up glaring at her when she decided to keep her mouth shut. After that, Ellie continued to point out useless aspects of the evidence and Sherlock continued to shoot them down. Still, it seemed to help him think, and in doing so this made her feel like she was doing something of importance.

"What about that?" she asked as they scoured what little was gathered from the third scene.

"What?"

She pointed to the victim's turquoise blouse that was wrapped in an evidence bag. "There, right in the middle. That's a big dirt smudge." She squinted at it and cocked her head. "It sort of looks like a footprint if you turn your head like this."

For a moment Sherlock seemed ready to dispute this as he had with everything else. However, he took another glance down at the front of the shirt, and noticed that there was indeed a faint gritty footprint etched in dirt that stood out from the rest of the fabric. It was almost impossible to notice at a first glance, but upon closer examination, there was no denying that it was there.

"How did no one notice this before?" he murmured, unsure who to be upset with for this lack of observation. "How did _I _not notice this?"

Ellie shrugged. "I guess you don't have my eye for stains and smudges."

He ignored her and tore the blouse out of the bag. He took out his pocket magnifying glass and hunched over.

"I can't make out any definitive tread patterns," he mumbled, more to himself than to Ellie. "About a size ten—average. Based on this I'd say he's no more than 5'10" or so. It looks like he stepped on the victim's stomach after he killed her."

"So all we know about this guy is that he's got size ten feet and is about 5'10". That doesn't really narrow it down," Ellie commented.

Sherlock grinned at her with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, my dear Archer, we know so much more than that. The lacerations on each victim's neck were clearly made from the front as opposed to being done from behind. This is unusual when dealing with slit throats, but it indicates that the killer truly wants to see the fear on their faces as he murders them. Each cut goes from right to left at a slightly upward angle, which means he's left handed. Judging by the angle that the blade severed the neck of the victims, it's clear that the man is more likely around 5'8" or 5'9". So, there you have it: we're looking for a left-handed psychopath who stands at about 5'8" and wears size ten trainers."

This new information wouldn't really help _find _the killer, but it certainly would be very useful once they had a suspect in that it would allow Sherlock to confirm or deny the suspect's involvement based on how well he fit this preliminary profile.

Still, Ellie smiled and allowed her face to convey how impressed she was. "That's fantastic." She liked that when she complimented him, Sherlock stood a little straighter and let his lips twitch upward.

"Of course it is," he replied. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. "Come on, it's getting late. Let's get home and we can order take away."

Ellie silently agreed and they headed out to the street.

It wasn't until they were halfway to Baker Street that Sherlock realized what he had said. "Let's get home" implied that they lived together, which they didn't. Though Ellie was filling the role of John, and that of the skull, the role of a friend which he'd become so used to having, he had to remind himself that they weren't flat-mates.

_Well, that can change, can't it? _he thought. He liked Ellie, and so for she seemed to like him, and there was no reason they couldn't live together as well. She was very much like John in that she had put up with him so far with minimal complaint (though at the same time, he couldn't deny that she was still distinctly _different_ than the ex-army doctor), and he and John had started sharing a flat after knowing each other for less than forty-eight hours. He had known Ellie for a considerably longer amount of time. Surely it would be reasonable for them to develop some sort of living arrangement.

He decided to broach the topic, though he would do it carefully. No need to scare her off just yet. "I saw you talking with Sally earlier today," he drawled casually. "Was she warning you about me?"

"Yes," Ellie replied, apparently amused at the memory. "She told me to stay away from you...for my own safety."

He cocked an eyebrow and smiled a bit. "Well, you clearly don't hold your safety in very high regard because you're still here."

She returned the smile. "What's life without a little risk?"

"Hmm," he murmured. "Did she also warn you not to move in with me?"

Ellie nodded. "Donovan seems to be under the impression that it would drive me insane, make me as mad as you are."

He took a breath before asking, "Would you like to give it a try?"

Her eyes widened momentarily in a clear display of surprise. "We hardly know each other."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "People move in with each other going off nothing more than adverts in the paper. Surely this is a better thing to rely on than that." When she still looked unconvinced, he added, "The rent is more than reasonable; the spare bedroom is roomy and comfortable; the landlady is a dear; and you've clear proof that someone can survive living with me—just look at John; he turned out okay."

Ellie shook her head and smiled. "Well, it seems like you've made my mind up for me."

"Good," Sherlock said with a grin.

A serial killer who created an interesting game, a new assistant/friend/flat-mate/replacement skull, and to top it all off, Mycroft hadn't stopped by for a "surprise visit" in over two weeks. Everything truly was going very well at the moment.

At least, it _was_ all going well until they entered the Baker Street flat. Sherlock heard the chattering of two women coming from his living room.

He groaned quietly. "I've asked Mrs. Hudson not to take Mrs. Turner into my flat anymore. They go in there to 'tidy up' and end up wrecking all of my experiments and misplacing everything."

Ellie giggled beside him, imagining a sulking Sherlock trying to return the place to its natural state of chaos.

However, when Sherlock and Ellie climbed the stairs and opened the door, Mrs. Turner wasn't there. Instead, the elderly landlady was seated on the couch next to a pretty, professional-looking woman in her mid-thirties. They looked up when the pair entered and the younger woman stood.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes," she greeted, extending her hand in a very business-like manner.

Sherlock shook it suspiciously. "And you are…a journalist. No," he corrected quickly, "a reporter. You've got two cats, a grey one that cuddles and a black one that clearly doesn't. You're single, have been for awhile now, and your parents are concerned that you work too hard. You've got a very limited social life, and you prefer the company of books rather than other people." He paused, releasing her hand. "Now what brings you here?"

She looked momentarily taken aback before she schooled her features into a more neutral expression. "My name is Natalie Calhoun. I take it you've heard the serial killer that's been murdering young women over the past month?"

"I'm familiar with the case, yes."

"Right, well, I found this note attached to my bedroom door when I came home from work today." She pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket.

Sherlock took the note and scooted over so Ellie could see it as well. It was identical in format to the one they had found on Sarah Kimble's body.

_Natalie Calhoun, from the early morning news,  
>The woman who always wins, prepare now to lose.<em>

_I saw the report that you did on me yesterday.  
>It didn't do me justice, and now you must pay.<em>

_Go to Sherlock Holmes, living on quaint Baker Street  
>If you want a chance against the fate you'll meet.<em>

_Go now, and do exactly what I've said to do.  
>And be careful, my dear; I'm coming for you.<em>


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello, dear readers! I feel like I should probably warn you about this next chapter. I wrote it very, very late last night while I was essentially high off NyQuil and other cold medicines. I'm currently extremely sick and bitter about it, so keep that in mind before you judge me too harshly. Alright, you have been warned. Enjoy!**

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><p>After reading the note that Natalie Calhoun had presented to them, Sherlock instructed the surprisingly calm woman to stay put. She resumed her conversation with Mrs. Hudson as the consulting detective pulled Ellie out of the room. He needed to discuss the latest development without interruptions from either the landlady or their guest. The pair wound up in Sherlock's bedroom. Ellie perched herself on the edge of the bed while Sherlock ignored her in favor of sending a text. She was forced to occupy herself by studying the framed periodic table that hung on the wall as Sherlock made no move to explain why he had brought her there.<p>

Finally finished with the text, he looked up. "Lestrade should be here shortly." He began pacing, a hint of a manic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "He's changing up the game. He has decided that seeing their fear just before they die isn't enough. No, now he wants them to _know _he's after them." Sherlock stopped moving and clasped his hands together with a mischievous, excited glint in his eyes. "This is wonderful!"

Ellie watched warily, decidedly not fond of the unrestrained glee Sherlock was exhibiting. He looked, as the expression goes, like a kid in a candy store. While the childlike excitement of the man may have been amusing to see in other situations, it was disturbingly out of place at the present. "I know that this is all some fascinating game to you, but try to remember that the woman downstairs has her life hanging in the balance."

Sherlock looked at Ellie as if he were only just noticing her presence in the room. _How odd_, he observed. Sure, John had made similar warnings about such things during his time at Baker Street ("There are lives at stake, Sherlock, actual _human lives_."), but he had only started worrying about Sherlock's lack of caring after about a month of working with him. This was only his first real case with Ellie, and it seemed strange that she would want to ground him, to humanize him, after such a short time together.

What was even stranger was that he was actually attempting to treat the grave matter at hand a bit more seriously. He did remind himself that people _were _in fact dying (a faint and unwelcome voice in his head shouted, "That's what people _DO_!"). He still didn't fully embrace this "caring lark," but he found it easier to inch away from his old heartlessly analytical tendencies. He blamed John for this change: give a high-functioning sociopath a real friend for once in his life and you end up forcing him to care, no matter how vigorously he resists.

"Right, yes. That woman may very well die within the week," he commented aloud. "The killer seems to desperately want me to be a part of what he's doing here. That plus the fact that he's trying to strike fear in his victims much earlier shows that he's getting complacent. Now he wants a challenge." Sherlock resumed his pacing. "And a challenge he shall get," he mumbled under his breath.

Ellie watched him think for awhile before feeling completely awkward, useless, and out of place. She shifted on the bed, preparing to stand up and leave him alone with his deductions. The glare she received upon moving was enough to have her sinking back down. "Did you...were you able to get anything from that note?" she asked uncertainly. It was difficult to tell if Sherlock wanted her to speak or remain quiet.

In truth, he didn't care whether or not she talked, just so long as she stayed. He had found that he worked better with company, and his productivity increased even more in the presence of people he deemed "tolerable." Though he still loathed being pestered while thinking, the occasional question, even if it was completely irrelevant, helped him to sort through the massive amounts of information currently pouring through his mind.

He shook his head distractedly. "No, there's nothing of importance that can be deduced from it. There's a smudging present in the ink that is unique to a little printing shop here in central London." Thankfully, nearly a month earlier, Sherlock had been asked to examine a document with the same telltale smudge, which meant he was already acquainted with the printing shop in question. "There are no cameras there, and chances are he looks so commonplace that neither the owners nor the customers would be able to point him out. Plus, I doubt he's used the place twice, so it's incredibly unlikely that anyone could identify a man who came in only once. Still, I suppose this does prove that he either lives or works in the area."

"Oh," Ellie said lamely. It was nearly impossible not to feel deflated after hearing something like that. Downstairs sat a woman whose life was precariously threatened by a madman and all they had to go on was that "he either lives or works in the area."

Sherlock's mind continued to process the case, and gears were almost visibly turning. However, no matter how many times he went over all the information, no matter how many elementary deductions he made, he couldn't seem to come up with any solid leads. In this way the killer was clever: it wasn't as if he didn't leave anything behind, because he most certainly did, but rather he only left clues that would prove nearly useless in the hunt to find him.

Sherlock flung himself face first onto his bed with an irritated huff. "I need more data, but to get more data, I need another dead body, and wanting someone else to die is more than a bit not good," he said into the duvet.

Ellie laid down next to him and stared at the ceiling. She knew Sherlock was frustrated and still analyzing beside her. Wanting to help but not knowing how, she gave his hand a comforting squeeze. Sherlock held her hand and tightened his grip when it seemed as if she might pull away. It was odd, this desire for the comforting contact. He wasn't usually a very physical person and typically got extremely uncomfortable when others tried to touch him at all. However, he found that he quite liked this. It was soothing and encouraging beyond reason. It was an assurance that he wasn't alone in this.

Heavy footsteps and a gruff, weary voice could be heard entering the living room.

Sherlock sighed before heaving himself off the bed, finally dropping Ellie's hand. "That'll be Lestrade," he announced.

"Do you think he's found anything useful since we last saw him?" Ellie wondered hopefully.

Sherlock scoffed at the inquiry as if to say, "The Yard never finds anything useful unless I'm there to walk them through it."

"Right, stupid question," she mumbled as Sherlock turned and exited the bedroom.

They filed into the living room just as Mrs. Hudson rose, muttering something about leaving them to their business. The landlady scurried away, presumably to indulge in some of those herbal soothers for her hip.

Lestrade's gaze fell on Ellie and Sherlock as they came into his line of vision. "Where were you two?" he asked.

"Bedroom," Sherlock replied disinterestedly.

Lestrade coughed in a poor attempt to hid a giggle. It was ridiculous to think that anything had actually happened between them while they were in there, but Lestrade couldn't contain the amusement stirred up by the thought of Sherlock Holmes, who was clearly either an alien or part robot, taking someone to bed.

Ellie blushed at the DI's obvious suggestion.

Sherlock saw her colored cheeks and rolled his eyes at the other man. "Stop acting like a child, Lestrade," he said coldly. "There are more important matters at hand."

Lestrade noted how it was usually him calling Sherlock a child, not the other way around. "Right, well, what've you got? It must be pretty damn interesting for you to drag me all the way down here when you know perfectly well that my shift ended an hour ago."

"Meet Natalie Calhoun," Ellie said, gesturing to the woman on the couch. "She's the killer's next target."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "How can you possibly know that?"

Sherlock briefly filled him in and handed him the note, only to complain about the sluggish speed at which he read.

When Lestrade finished scanning the poem, he turned to the woman sitting on the couch. "Ms. Calhoun, if the killer truly has singled you out, I think it would be best for you to be placed into protective custody."

Calhoun shook her head vigorously. "Absolutely not," she said. "I appreciate and respect your concern, Detective Inspector, but I will not live in fear of someone just because they've written me a few lines of rubbish poetry. I have a life to live and I refuse to put in on hold for some petty criminal."

"This isn't a 'petty criminal' we're dealing with, ma'am," Lestrade shot back, clearly frustrated at her lack of cooperation.

"He's extremely dangerous," Ellie pointed out. "I know you think that you're taking a stand by refusing protective custody, but you're actually creating unnecessary risks. The guy who's after you is a ruthless murderer, and he won't be put off in the slightest by you ignoring his threat."

"Oh, please," Calhoun snapped, losing all faked politeness. "Don't patronize me. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don't need protective custody. I just need to be left alone."

"But you came here," Sherlock said calmly.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Calhoun barked. She was certainly much nastier and much, much uglier now that her pretense had completely dropped.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, it could be nothing, but I think that by doing this you were subconsciously trying to keep yourself alive. The note that you received demanded that you come here, and rather than just going on with your life, you complied. And here we are. So, now that it's clear that at least part of you would like to remain safe, I think we can come to some sort of agreement." When Calhoun opened her mouth to dispute this, Sherlock lost a touch of his composure and snapped, "There's really no way you can argue with that. Now, I suggest you stop being such an insufferable _idiot_ and accept some police protection."

Calhoun shot him an icy glare, which was promptly returned by Sherlock's own look of unsubtle disdain, but she kept her mouth shut.

Eventually, both Calhoun and Lestrade left the flat. They had agreed to have four officers stationed with her at all times, acting almost like bodyguards; they would accompany her during her daily routine and would prevent contact with suspicious or unsavory people. This plan offered the least amount of interference with Calhoun's life while still providing some form of protection.

"Is it bad that I hate that woman?" Ellie wondered when the two had finally gone. "I mean, there is a killer after her. I'm supposed to at least _try _to be sympathetic, but I find it hard to do when she's such a horrid _bitch_."

Sherlock chuckled. "I agree, but then again, my morality is probably not what you want to be basing yours on."

Ellie merely shrugged in response.

Sherlock seated himself on the couch with a case file in his hands. Ellie ventured into the kitchen and made some tea, barely startled upon finding the rotting toes in the cupboard. She asked how Sherlock took his tea (two sugars, just as he took his coffee) and fixed it accordingly. In her own mug, Sherlock noted, she added just a bit of honey, nothing else. Useless information: delete later.

After draining her mug and helping Sherlock look through the files for several hours, Ellie started to feel a bit drowsy. It had been quite a long day, and all of that excitement had really taken a toll. She nodded off right there on the sofa at around two in the morning with Sherlock still alert beside her.

A short distance away, a man sat outside Natalie Calhoun's flat and observed two cars parked in front, each with two men inside, that hadn't moved all day. A police detail, he assumed.

"No matter," he mumbled to himself. "I know just how to get around them."

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><p><strong>As always, please review!<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Well, unfortunately, I'm still battling a massive cold and I feel awful right now. Again, this chapter was written after I'd taken an assortment of medicines to help with my headache, my sore throat, and my obnoxiously runny nose. Still, I gave it my best shot and I hope you all enjoy it!**

**Also, I noticed while looking through some of the previous chapters that I make the occasional error. It's honestly really embarrassing for me to find grammar and spelling mistakes in what I've written, especially when I try so hard to avoid making them. So if you find anything in this chapter that is incorrect, grammatically or otherwise, please don't hesitate to let me know so I can go back and fix it. Much appreciated!**

**One last thing: sorry for the insane length of this chapter. I didn't realize how long it was until just now and I truly apologize for making you sit through all of this in one go.**

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><p>Three days passed with absolutely no news from the killer. Calhoun grew confident in her safety and resented her police escort. Sherlock, however, was convinced that this lack of contact was far more dangerous than anything they'd seen yet. He knew that the murderer was planning something, plotting out his next move, and it was only a matter of time before he struck again. Unfortunately, Calhoun's increasing bravery and ease in her situation would make her all the more unprepared when he finally acted.<p>

During those three days, Ellie had essentially moved in. She brought the majority of her things to Baker Street and had successfully assimilated into life there. She and Sherlock developed a sort of routine. Each night, she would sit with Sherlock on the couch and review case notes until obscene hours. She would then fall asleep there, curled up with her head resting uncomfortably on the armrest. Each morning, she would wake up to find Sherlock in nearly the exact same position as he had been when she dozed off.

"Are you getting any sleep at all?" she asked worriedly on that third day.

"Hmm," he replied.

"Sherlock." Her voice was laced with concern.

"Sleeping is boring. Besides, how could I possibly sleep in the middle of a case like this?"

Ellie sighed and stood up, stretching her aching muscles. "Fine, but don't expect me to catch you when you collapse from exhaustion," she warned as she headed into the kitchen.

Another aspect of their daily routine had Ellie cooking breakfast. She was really quite good at it, which was very lucky as Sherlock was absolutely rubbish at cooking.

"Eat," she commanded a short while later, setting a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. When he failed to glance up from the case file he was studying, she changed her tone so that the reprimand was clear and said, "Sherlock, eat."

He looked up to glare at here with shocking severity. She surprisingly didn't back down and instead countered it with her own stern gaze.

"Don't you have cleaning to do?" he snapped, turning back to the file but gingerly picking at the toast.

Ellie smiled slightly despite his harsh tone. She had quickly realized that Sherlock did occasionally get bitter and snippy while working, and she tried not to let his comments effect her too much. Still, he was right about the cleaning. She had come to understand that without someone forcing him to pick up after himself, Sherlock would let the flat go until it became on massive and chaotic mess. She was currently battling the horrid state that living alone for over a month had caused. When she finished her breakfast, Ellie decided that it probably would do her some good to take a break from the case. It's not as if she was doing much anyway. After putting her plate in the kitchen, she made her way back to the living room to tackle the ever-growing stack of papers that was building up behind Sherlock's armchair.

Sherlock watched her bustle about the room with some interest. Him working, Ellie cleaning and making him breakfast: it was all so domestic.

Hours passed without a word exchanged between the two residents of the flat. Sherlock was glad that his newest friend didn't seem too bothered by the frequent quiet that descended upon them. He noted that she possessed the grand gift of silence, which made her quite invaluable as a companion.

Ellie eventually finished tidying up and sat down on her end of the sofa once more. She pulled out a novel and flipped aimlessly through the pages, not really reading. Her mind was still going over the details of the case, and though she knew that she didn't have the skill necessary to offer any substantial help, she couldn't deny the nagging feeling of needing to assist the progress in some way.

Sherlock soon heaved a frustrated sigh and tossed the file he had been reading onto the floor. Ellie winced; she had just finished cleaning this room and was almost offended by her flat-mate's lack of consideration for all that effort.

Sherlock spun himself around so that his back was leaning uncomfortably against the armrest. He spread himself out as much as possible without encroaching on the space that Ellie was taking up.

"I need to think," he declared.

"I thought that's what you've been doing for the past four days," Ellie commented with some amusement.

He glared at her, though there wasn't much aggression in the look. "Move," he commanded, ready to take up his usual "thinking pose." Currently, however, that was made impossible by Ellie's decision to remain seated on the other end of the sofa.

"Why?"

He rolled his eyes as if she was being incredibly dull. "It helps me think when I lay down on the couch, and I can't do that with you in the way, now can I? So, I'll say it again: move."

"No," she replied firmly. "I'm not going to leave my very comfortable spot just to accommodate you."

"Suit yourself," Sherlock answered with a shrug.

Ellie had expected him to just leave it at that, though she later realized that it was absurd to think that Sherlock Holmes would ever leave something alone so easily. Instead of reaching a peaceful solution, she soon found her hands knocked aside to make room for the consulting detective's feet. It seemed that Sherlock had been unsatisfied with her refusal to move and had decided to continue with his desire to spread out across the couch regardless of the obstacle in his way.

"Sherlock," Ellie complained, fruitlessly trying to push his legs off her lap.

He shut his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin. "I don't see why you're whining. After all, this seems like a reasonable compromise; we both get what we want."

She huffed in annoyance, grudgingly accepting defeat. "Fine, but could you at least hand me the paper so I have something to do? I would go back to reading but this book is so dreadfully boring," she added, tossing the novel aside.

Sherlock reached over and blindly snatched the newspaper off the coffee table and threw it in her direction. Based off the angry slap on the leg he received, he assumed that he hit her in the head.

Ellie ruffled the paper and looked down at the front page. She sighed at the headline: LONDON TERROR STRIKES AGAIN. Below this was an article about Sarah Kimble's death in relation to those of the other three victims. Apparently, this serial killer, the one deemed the London Terror, was even more frightening that those the city had seen in the past because his choice of victims seemed almost random. Nearly any woman between twenty and forty could be a potential target.

"The press has given this guy a name," Ellie commented. "They're calling him the Terror, the London Terror."

"Hmm," Sherlock replied. "Seems fairly accurate, don't you think?"

"I suppose. I just hate it when they give killers nicknames."

Sherlock nodded, eyes still closed. "I agree."

They remained fairly quiet after that. Eventually, Ellie found that Sherlock's legs were beginning to cut off the circulation to her own, and she stood up. He opened one eye to shoot her a curious look.

"I've got pins and needles," she explained, shaking out her tingling limbs.

Several more hours flew by, and Ellie occupied herself with rather trivial matters. She finished organizing her bedroom and unpacking all of her belongings. At one point she even went down to visit Mrs. Hudson. The landlady made them both some tea. Sherlock knew that Mrs. Hudson had taken a liking to Ellie almost immediately as she still believed them to be romantically involved. Although both Ellie and Sherlock had assured her that it had just been one date, she remained convinced that they were together. After the twelfth insinuation from the old woman, they had stopped trying to correct her.

When he heard Ellie climbing back up the stairs, Sherlock sat up. "How was tea?" he asked as she walked through the door.

She opened her mouth to ask how he knew they had been having tea but thought better of it. Instead, she replied, "It was nice, I suppose. Mrs. Hudson is a lovely woman and all, but she is a _terrible _gossip. I've learned more about Mrs. Turner and the other members of their knitting club than I'd ever care to know."

Sherlock nodded with a look of pained understanding on his face. "You should hear her when she talks about the 'married ones' next door. _Way _too much information." He shuddered at the memory.

Ellie threw herself into one of the armchairs and sighed. "So, what's the plan for the rest of the night?"

"I was thinking we could go out. I need a little break."

"Sounds good."

About an hour later, the two were seated in Angelo's at Sherlock's usual table by the window. Almost immediately after they sat down, Angelo himself rushed out to greet them.

"Sherlock, welcome back," he said cheerfully. "And you've brought such a lovely date tonight. I'll get you some candles." He leaned down next to Ellie to whisper in a conspiratorial manner, "More romantic that way."

He returned a short time later with the aforementioned candles and a lighter. "Anything you want, free of charge, as always," he announced to them. "This man saved my life." He gestured happily to Sherlock, a broad grin on his face. "You make sure to bring your date back here whenever you'd like. You two are always welcome."

He scurried off, muttering something about giving them "alone time."

"He seems nice," Ellie commented after awhile.

Sherlock merely nodded absently in response, briefly glancing down at the menu he had been given.

"Are you actually going to eat?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "I've already had a full breakfast. You really think I'm going to eat again?"

Ellie sighed. From what she'd seen of Sherlock's eating habits so far, she knew that he really _should _be eating at least three regular meals a day. Then again, he had already surpassed her expectations that day in regards to his food intake, so she decided to let him off the hook. "Alright, but you're having breakfast _and _dinner tomorrow."

He waved his hand and said, "Fine, fine."

After Ellie had ordered her meal, Sherlock turned his attention to the other customers dining around them. He quickly shot out deductions about those seated at the tables nearest theirs.

Ellie shook her head incredulously after Sherlock finished explaining how he concluded that the woman sitting in the corner was cheating on her husband based off of her hair clip.

"Fantastic," she told him, smiling. "It's absolutely amazing." Sherlock looked so pleased by the compliments that she couldn't help adding, "You really are incredible."

_Well, that's new,_ he thought. Typically, people only praised his deductions and his observational skills. It was rare, if not unheard of, for someone to compliment him as a person. Now, he knew Ellie wasn't really calling him a model human being or anything of the sort, but it was nice to hear such comments nonetheless.

He smiled back at her with a genuine smile. "Thank you."

"Why haven't you ever deduced me?" she wondered.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I've noticed that you usually just shout out your deductions right away when you see someone, but you never did that with me," she explained.

"Of course I did," he replied, sounding almost offended by her accusation of his failure to observe. "I haven't announced my findings simply because I haven't had the opportunity. When we first met, I was in the middle of apprehending a killer, and all of our contact after that has been during a case. Catching murderers usually takes precedent over sharing what I've deduced about a friend."

"Oh."

He smiled at her as he brought his hands up in front of his face and touched his fingertips together. "I could tell you now."

Ellie nodded eagerly. "Go on then."

"Well, based on your mannerisms and your accent, I'd say you're from the west coast of the United States, somewhere warm. You've yet to adjust to London's chilly weather. My guess is southern California. So, why would you abandon tropical SoCal for bleak London? Not for a job as you're currently unemployed. I think it has something to do with the bruises that were on your arms when we first met. There wasn't any long-term abuse, so we can rule out you wanting to escape from that. What was it? Did someone attack you at a crime scene?"

Ellie was impressed, though she supposed she should have been used to his accuracy by now. "Um, yes, the killer came back while I was examining the body. He'd left some evidence and decided to get it back. Luckily there were a few officers just around the corner doing a perimeter sweep and they managed to stop the guy before anything really bad happened."

Sherlock continued to stare at her with intense and calculating eyes. "Yes, and you moved here shortly after. But why? It wasn't because you were scared. Did you finally realize the fragility of life?"

Ellie nodded slowly. "Life is short, and I don't do a whole lot to keep myself out of harm's way. I didn't want to spend my last days in Orange County. I've always hated it there."

"And now here you are," Sherlock murmured. "Your move took far less time that it should have. Dual citizenship? But your accent is distinctly and undeniably American, so I'm assuming that you never spent much time in England, and you probably hadn't lived here for years, decades even." He paused for a moment before continuing. "And then there's the matter of your family life. You're an only child, grew up with two loving parents, until something happened. A car accident is statistically the most likely possibility. You've got a scar right by your collarbone from when you were very young, so I'd wager that you were in the car when it happened. Your dad was killed in the crash, and your mother hasn't remarried since."

Ellie swallowed thickly, a bit uncomfortable talking about that sensitive topic. "How'd you know?" she finally asked. "About Dad, I mean. How could you possibly know that he's dead?"

Sherlock's calm and neutral features briefly gave way to a flash of sympathy for his companion. He quickly schooled his expression back into its usual mask and said, "There's only one picture of you and your father that you've brought to the flat. It shows you with him, barely older than ten. You look sad whenever you glance at it, so I'm assuming it was the last photograph taken of you two together. There's a much more recent picture of you and your mother, and she's still wearing a wedding ring, though it's obvious that the ring is at least forty years old, meaning she hasn't gotten remarried." He paused awkwardly, unsure about what he was going to say next. "I truly am sorry for your loss, and I apologize for bringing it up like this."

Ellie smiled softly and shook her head. "It's fine, really. I asked you what you'd deduced about me and you gave the honest answer. But thank you for...apologizing, I guess."

Before an awkward silence could threaten to overtake them, Ellie's food arrived and she dove right into her meal. Sherlock occasionally stole bites off of her plate when she looked away, though he pretended that he wasn't eating when she glanced up at him. She knew, however, and smiled because it was always so difficult to get him to eat.

Their meal was soon cut short by the _ding _from Sherlock's phone that announced the arrival of a new text.

"It's from Lestrade," he announced. His eyes widened ever-so-slightly as he read through the message.

"What is it?" Ellie asked anxiously, grabbing the phone.

It read: _Natalie Calhoun was sent another note. This one found in her car._

There was a picture attached to the text that showed another piece of plain white paper with a few typed lines of poetry, just like everything else the killer had sent.

_Tick, tock, goes the clock.  
>And what then shall we see?<br>Tick, tock, goes the clock.  
>You can't escape from me.<em>

_Tick, tock, goes the clock.  
>Your time is running out.<br>Tick, tock, no one will hear  
>When you scream and shout.<em>

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><p><strong>Alright, so I must admit that the last poem was based off the creepy children's song in several episodes from the most recent season of Doctor Who. Anyway, reviews and comments are awesome and they make me happy, so you should definitely review! :)<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello! Remember how I apologized last time for making the previous chapter so long? Well, this one is roughly the same length, so I'm going to apologize again. I know one or two of you mentioned you were okay with the longer chapters, but I feel like I'm overwhelming you guys with so many words at once. Still, this is how it is, and I can't say I'm going to be changing all that much of it.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think!**

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><p>"Ms. Calhoun, I really must insist on protective custody at this point," Lestrade said over the phone.<p>

He was in the Baker Street flat with Sherlock and Ellie after being sent away by Natalie Calhoun. Rather than taking the London Terror's most recent note as a serious threat, she was acting as if she was perfectly safe. She claimed to have a big project for work that needed to get done by the morning and had demanded that no more than the four officers stationed outside her flat be allowed near her until the next day. Consequently, Lestrade, Ellie, and Sherlock were now all huddled together in the living room, trying to convince her via phone call to at least understand the gravity of the situation.

"Give me the phone," Sherlock commanded, not waiting for Lestrade to comply before snatching the device out of the DI's hand. "Hello. I don't know if you're purposefully being obtuse or if you truly don't get what's going on here, but even your funny little brain must be able to grasp the fact that _your life is in danger_. Now, I suggest you stop being an _absolute idiot_ and..." He paused, staring at the phone with something akin to disbelieving confusion. "Hello? Hello?" He frowned slightly and tossed the mobile back to Lestrade. "She hung up. Why would she do that?"

"People usually don't like to be told that they're idiots with small brains," Ellie commented.

"Oh, right." Sherlock started pacing and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Why couldn't she just accept the police custody? A few guards outside her home won't stop the Terror for long. It's only a matter of time..." He trailed off and began mumbling to himself, tuning out the rest of the room.

Lestrade turned to Ellie. "I'm surprised. If this had happened last year, he would have condemned that woman as an imbecile and moved on. Now it seems like he's really trying to keep her alive. It's impressive."

Ellie furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? What's changed over the past year?"

A ghost of a smile played at his lips as he replied, "Sherlock's found people who care about him, and in return those people have made him more human. You know, I think that between you and John Watson, Sherlock Holmes might just become a good man after all."

She really had no idea what the detective inspector was going on about. "Sherlock is a good man," she said after awhile.

"Not yet, but one day," Lestrade told her.

Before Ellie could ask him what the hell he was on about, Lestrade excused himself, claiming that he really wasn't needed there any longer.

"I'll call you with any updates," he said as he walked out the door.

With him gone, Ellie was essentially alone in the flat. Sherlock would ignore her and all outside distractions for an hour or two before he got frustrated with his lack of anything to go on. Until then, until he decided to let her in once more, all she could do was sit and wait.

~oOo~

He had come to be known as the London Terror, though he thought that merely the Terror would suffice. He had a real name too, of course, but he much preferred the one the press had given him. It described so perfectly the essence of everything he was doing, everything he planned to do. Pain, fear, utter horror: causing it for others was exciting, exhilerating in the fullest sense. He enjoyed it, thrived off of it, and there wasn't anything anyone could do that would stop him.

In fact, he was just about to put his newest plan into action, one that would surely effect them to the very core. She thought she was safe. She didn't take his threat seriously enough. That was better than he'd ever expected. While he loved to watch the dawning terror that the victims got whenever they received one of his little poems, it would be even more exciting to get to this woman who had assumed that he was no real danger. How wrong she was. The false security that she felt would make it so much more frightening for her when he finally got to her. And he would get to her.

He pulled out his mobile and dialed her number.

"Hello?" she greeted curtly. Not in a good mood, clearly.

"Yes, hello," he said smoothly. "I'm with Beroni's Restaurant. Is this Natalie Calhoun?"

"Er, yes, this is," she replied hesitantly. "How can I help you?"

"Right, well, I was contacted by Detective Inspector Lestrade, and he wanted to know if you would like to have some food delivered. I believe it was meant as an apology of sorts." He grinned, his lips curling upward into a sick expression. He had overheard the argument with the DI earlier, the one in which she'd all but banned the man from disturbing her for the rest of the night. "It'll all be free of charge, of course," he added after a brief hesitation on her part.

Calhoun took a short moment to think over the offer. "Fine, alright. I suppose a bit of food would do me some good right about now."

_Perfect, _he thought. Everything was going according to plan.

~oOo~

Sherlock was distressed. That's the only way to accurately describe the state he was in. It wasn't as if he was emotionally attached to that awful Calhoun woman, but he so desperately wanted no one else to die and her stupidity seemed to be the only factor making that happy outcome difficult.

_I care too much_, he concluded, though he didn't find himself to be too upset by this revelation. _I care about a horrid potential victim who I've only had the misfortune to meet once. _A true sociopath wouldn't care if she died, and even a high-functioning one surely wouldn't let her idiocy effect him like this. Perhaps it was time to change his self-diagnosis. It seemed that rather than being completely disconnected as he originally thought, he was actually more of an aloof personality with antisocial tendencies. None of that was really important at all, but it was the closest thing to self-discovery he'd had in nearly twenty years, so that should at least count for something.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked around the room. About forty-five minutes had passed since Lestrade left, and the flat was quiet. He momentarily wondered if Ellie had gone out, but he soon spotted her sitting on the couch, simply waiting.

"Welcome back to planet Earth," she said when she noticed him staring at her. Her weak smile wasn't returned, and she soon dropped the expression all together.

"Grab your coat," he instructed, walking toward the door to pick up his own coat and scarf from the rack.

She glanced at him slowly, taking in his mood and appearance. She apparently decided that it would be better not to ask where they were headed, and instead she just followed his lead as he led her out the door. Honestly, Sherlock was a bit surprised by the show of trust on her part. He wasn't the most cautious person, and it was completely plausible that he was leading them into a potentially dangerous situation, but she didn't question it at all. It was nice to be so trusted, to know that someone else cared enough for him to bestow something like that.

"We're going to convince Natalie Calhoun that she's making a grave mistake," he disclosed as they climbed into a cab.

"Okay," she said simply.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Let's just hope we get there before anything too extreme happens."

~oOo~

He waited outside the flat after being stopped by one of the officers stationed there. He hated waiting; it only ever got in the way. What he really wanted to do would be much more thrilling than standing out in front of a building. He caught sight of a newspaper that had been tossed carelessly on the side of the road. THE TERROR PLAUGES LONDON. He grinned, pleased by the mass panic he seemed to be causing.

"Ma'am?" the officer said into his cell phone, pulling the other man out of his thoughts of self-congratulations. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Ms. Calhoun. It's Sergeant Boson; I'm stationed outside right now...Yes, well, I've got a guy here who says he's from a place called Beroni's. Were you expecting to get some food delivered from there?" There was an expectant pause, and the man beside Boson was thrumming with anticipation. "Alright, I'll send him up." Boson hung up the phone and turned to the man he had detained. "Looks like you're good to go."

"Thank you, Sergeant," he replied, his voice sickly sweet.

And with that, he climbed the stairs to complete his final part of the plan.

~oOo~

Sherlock raced out of the cab and was halfway to the door of the building when two men emerged from a parked car.

"Officers, please, stand down," Sherlock said in a bored voice. "My name is Sherlock Holmes." A glimmer of recognition could be seen on each man's face. "Ah, I see you've heard of me. You must also know that I've been quite crucial to this investigation. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an urgent matter to take up with Natalie Calhoun."

"Wait," one of the officers said. "How do we know you are who you say?"

The other responded before Sherlock even got the chance. "Trust me, Boson, that's the real Sherlock Holmes. I've worked with him on a few cases before."

"Have you?" Sherlock asked. "What's your name then?"

"Hopkins, sir," the man replied eagerly.

"Hopkins, I have high hopes for you," Sherlock announced before nodding once to the officers and dashing inside.

Ellie trailed after him, keeping right on his heels as he seemed to know exactly where he was going. When they eventually reached the door that Sherlock claimed led to Calhoun's flat, they were unnerved at the sight of it already open. A sickening feeling dropped like a dead weight in Ellie's stomach as she knew what to expect when they entered.

Sure enough, there on the floor, spread out and still slowly oozing blood, was Natalie Calhoun. Her throat had been slit, just like the others. There was no denying that the Terror was behind this once again. The killer had managed to strike right under their noses.

On her body, there was another note, as always. Sherlock's face was a painfully blank mask, and Ellie hated to see him shut down like that. His eyes lost much of their spark as they roamed over the newest corpse. He slowly walked over toward Calhoun and picked up the note that had been resting on her stomach.

_The poor dear, you were all too late.  
>You couldn't save her from this fate.<em>

_Sherlock Holmes, we'll soon meet again,  
>And you'd better step up or lose the game.<em>

_Terror will stike and fear will fall,  
>And no one is safe, no one at all.<em>

~oOo~

By the time they finally left the crime scene, midnight had come and gone. Ellie was exhausted and upset and worried and just a little bit scared. Mortality had never felt so personal until now. The killer struck when they thought they could still save her, and Ellie was still struggling to comprehend all that had happened.

Sherlock had been silent for the whole cab ride, but he immediately began to tear through case notes once again as soon as they returned home.

Ellie made them both some tea, and when she set Sherlock's mug in front of him, she thought she heard him mumbling something along the lines of, "Stupid woman...all her fault..."

"Sherlock, have some sympathy," she said. "Calhoun just died, and she may not have handled her situation all that well, but you can hardly place the blame solely on her."

He looked up and glared at Ellie with a shocking severity. It was a harsh look, one filled with unforgiving intensity. "Well, it was all her fault. If she hadn't been so impossibly _stupid, _none of that would have happened. So, yes, as far as I'm concered, all the blame can rest entirely on her and it won't be wrong in the slightest. Her own behavior brought this on; there's no way to argue around that."

Ellie was shocked. She furrowed her brow and her lip curled upward in subtle disgust. "You really think that? It doesn't bother you to talk about her like that after what happened?" She turned, ready to retreat to her bedroom. She hadn't yet slept in there, but with Sherlock acting so incredibly heartless when a woman just _died_, she didn't think she could stand to be near him for that much longer. She didn't want to see him act that way; she wanted to believe that he was better than that. She spun around to face him just before she reached the stairs that led to her solitary room. "Do you even care at all? A woman lost her life tonight, Sherlock. Do you _even care?_"

Sherlock watched her as she waited for him to give an answer. He didn't want her to be upset with him, and he knew exactly why she was angry. John had been the same way when Sherlock had been so distant, but for some reason, this felt different. He couldn't have her getting frustrated like this, because then she would go upstairs, and he would be forced to deal with this all alone. He didn't want to deal with it alone. He wanted her to come over and hold his hand like she had done before, just to show that she was on his side. He needed that sort of comfort, and though he wasn't willing to admit it, he really just needed a friend. This was hard on him, taking a toll that no one bothered to pay any attention to. He cared, and it was more than anyone really noticed. With the whole world assuming he was a sociopath, he wanted at least one person to truly understand the extent to which he honestly _cared_ about all of this. He needed someone to see just how much the deadly game was effecting him. He wanted to feel human, to feel normal, for once. Or at least he needed one person to acknowledge just how human and normal he truly was.

So rather than acting like he really didn't give a damn about any of it, Sherlock lowered his voice from the frustrated growl he had previously been using and said, "Of course I care. No one thinks it, but I do. I care more than most people know, and I'm still not some empathetic social butterfly but I _feel _it, all of it. Of course I care," he repeated. "And it hurts," he added softly, almost to himself.

Ellie stared at him, her previous frustration quickly ebbing away to make room for Sherlock's revelation. "Oh."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Yes. But it was still Natalie Calhoun's fault." He lowered his voice to a whisper so low that Ellie almost didn't hear it, though she wasn't sure if she was supposed to have heard it anyway. "It has to be her fault."

Everything clicked. Sherlock felt responsible. Bearing that weight, feeling as if you're to blame for the death of another human being, is enough to drive anyone mad. It is crippling and wrecking and will eat away at a person from the inside out, leaving nothing but the devestated shell of what they once were. And to protect himself from being driven to that point, Sherlock had to pass off Calhoun's death as being nothing more than a side-affect of her poor decisions.

Ellie walked over to where Sherlock was sitting and planted herself right beside him, much closer than she usually sat. It seemed necessary to her to have proximity to demonstrate what she needed him to know. She placed her hand lightly over his, and he eventually twined their fingers together.

"I don't know if I'd say that Calhoun is entirely to blame on this one," she commented softly after awhile. Sherlock looked momentarily frightened (well, as frightened as he could look), and he worried that she would tell him that he had really been at fault here. "No, I think we've got to pin most of this on the killer. It was partly Calhoun's poor choices that did her in, but you can't deny that the Terror really deserves all of the blame." She squeezed his hand. "And we'll get him for that."

Sherlock looked down at their hands. "Yes, I suppose we will." That night was the most openly vulnerable he'd been with someone in quite some time, and he wasn't sure that he'd like to make a habit of it. Still, it was nice to know that in those moments, Ellie would step up to support him, to calm him down, to be the friend he so desperately needed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Well, this is another lengthy chapter, but I'm sorry to say that there's not much excitement and adventure in this one. The problem is that I've now got a dilemma, one that you readers can hopefully help me out with. You see, I've got a definite conclusion for this story in mind; I know exactly how I want it to end. Still, I don't want to rush into the ending because I'm not sure the characters and the plot is developed enough yet to flow nicely in the conclusion. At the same time, I don't want this story to drag out and become far too long for its own good. So that's where you guys come in. If you have any ideas about what could happen next in the story to give it time to grow a bit more without making it drag on, please let me know. Even if you think that I should just end it here, it would be great of you to tell me. I really need your advice!**

**yellowcrayon7: I've never read Laurie R. King's book series, but I'll have to check it out sometime. I wasn't aware that Ellie's background was similar to Mary Russell's from that series, so I hope you don't think I've been ripping it off or anything! Anywho, thanks for the support!**

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><p>Ellie awoke with a start. She had the words of the killer's latest poem ringing through her head:<p>

_Terror will strike and fear will fall,  
><em>_And no one is safe, no one at all._

She pushed the stanza and its eerie implications out of her mind, struggling to forget the nightmare she had been having moments earlier.

Ellie recalled the events of the previous day: rushing over to Natalie Calhoun's flat, finding her dead, still bleeding body spread carelessly across the floor with a glimmer of fear still etched into her features, and finally the shocking vulnerability that Sherlock had displayed and her own need to comfort him. After Sherlock had opened up to her, they had once more camped out on the couch for the night. Ellie made sure not to sleep until she knew he was doing the same. He needed all the rest he could get at this point.

She glanced over to where the consulting detective had been, but his spot on the sofa was empty. She was momentarily upset and assumed he had left her behind while he went off to work on the case. However, the smell of bacon and eggs that wafted in from the kitchen soon alerted her to the fact that Sherlock was cooking breakfast.

Ellie walked into the kitchen and surveyed the scene. Nothing seemed to be burning, which was a miracle in and of itself. It took her a second to realize why he was doing this, but she quickly acknowledged that this was his way of offering gratitude for the events of the previous night without directly talking about it.

"Looks good," she commented, taking over preparation of the eggs so Sherlock could focus on the sizzling bacon.

He ignored her statement and took in her bedraggled appearance. There were bruise-like rings under her eyes and her skin had taken on an unusual pallor, indicating a rough night. Of course, having slept next to her, he should have been aware of any disturbances that might have caused her to look so disheveled and distressed, but Sherlock had actually fallen asleep, and once he reached unconsciousness, he was dead to the world until he woke up. Still, it was impossible for any major outside interruptions to have occurred during her slumber without him noticing, which left night terrors as the only possible explanation.

"You had nightmares," he pointed out.

She yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Brilliant deduction. But don't worry; bad dreams are nothing new to me."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. Was he supposed to offer her some sort of comfort? But she had told him not to worry, so it seemed unlikely that she was seeking that sort of encouragement. In the end, he ended up shoving a plate of bacon toward her and saying, "Eat up. We'll be leaving soon."

"Where're we going?" she asked as she spooned some eggs onto the plate and sat down at the table.

He didn't look at her and instead tidied up the kitchen. "I need to examine Natalie Calhoun's body. I didn't really get the chance to last night." He waited expectantly, his stomach churning slightly. Sherlock wasn't sure if she would bring up their little interaction after Calhoun's death. He was incredibly appreciative of it, but he found himself desperately wanting to avoid talking about what happened. He had been open and vulnerable, and though it was nice to know that Ellie truly was there to support him, he didn't want to feel so unmasked and exposed again anytime soon. He didn't know what he would do if she expected him to be that painfully honest from now on.

"Okay," was all Ellie said.

Sherlock looked over to where she was sitting. She smiled back at him, and the expression was light, weightless. His lips twitched upward and he found himself grinning back. He was happy and immensely grateful. Having a companion who knew when to leave something alone just like that was more than he could have hoped for. All his life, people had been pushing too hard or not pushing hard enough, and it was wonderful to finally have someone who could incorporate a delicate balance of the two into their relationship.

Because he felt uncomfortable expressing his thanks in any other way, Sherlock decided to make Ellie tea to go along with her breakfast. Sherlock carefully added just the right amount of honey into her mug. He knew he should have deleted that bit of useless information—that she liked just a dash of honey in her tea—but he never got around to it. To be honest, he wasn't sure if he wanted to delete it anymore, even if there was no real use for keeping the pointless fact.

~oOo~

A short while later, Ellie and Sherlock entered the mortuary at Bart's. Sherlock had texted ahead and informed Molly Hooper of his plan to examine Natalie Calhoun's corpse. Thankfully, as Sherlock led the way into the cool, lonely room, Molly already had the body laid out on one of the metal slabs.

"Hello," Molly chirped when she saw him.

Sherlock noted absently that she was wearing lipstick again. Rather than return her greeting, he said, "I take it this is Ms. Calhoun?"

Molly merely nodded, distracted by the sudden appearance of Ellie through the doorway. "Err, who's this then, Sherlock?" she asked with a nervous laugh.

When he failed to acknowledge that she had spoken, Ellie stepped forward and extended her hand. "Hi, I'm Ellie Archer, Sherlock's…friend." _Is that the right way to categorize our relationship? _she wondered. They were friends, surely, but they were also colleagues, partners of a sort, flat-mates…

She finally concluded that there really _wasn't _any way to classify them under a neat little title.

"Oh," Molly said slowly, the unwarranted rejection evident in her voice. She seemed to get rather defensive all of a sudden and added, "Well, Sherlock's never mentioned you before."

Ellie kept up her polite, fake smile when she replied, "Well, I don't think he's ever mentioned you either. Imagine that." She walked away from Molly and stood by Sherlock's side as he looked over the body, searching for any clues.

Sherlock already knew that Calhoun had been killed in the same manner as the previous four victims, but he wanted to double check that there weren't any details evident on her corpse that differed from the others. After all, her death itself was different in that in meant more; it was a way to make things more personal.

Molly hurried over to Sherlock's other side and hovered there, eagerly wanting to get the man's attention. "Her throat was slit," she offered.

Ellie rolled her eyes. Of course Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, could tell that the cause of death was the massive laceration on her neck. Molly was being dreadfully dull by pointing out the obvious.

"It's awful, isn't it?" the mousy girl commented, staring down at the victim with a sad fondness. "The poor thing."

Ellie was decidedly not a fan of the way Molly casually brushed her fingers against Sherlock's arm, but she smiled slightly when he shirked away from the contact. She knew she should feel bad for Molly, desperately chasing after a man she had no chance with, but it was difficult to maintain that pity when the girl would not take a hint. It was really quite obvious that he wasn't interested, and yet she continued to pursue him shamelessly.

"Have you found anything?" Ellie asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, there's nothing here. Still, her death was significantly different than all the others."

"How so?" Ellie wondered.

"Well, to start, she was murdered in her home, whereas the previous four had all been abducted and taken to some sort of field before they were killed. Why would the Terror decide to change up his M.O. all of a sudden? That's simple: it's because her death is more than just a way to get off on fear. No, this time he was also proving that he has the upper hand in this twisted game. Killing Calhoun in the very place where she thought she was safest was the Terror's way of letting me know that he's winning."

"So he's not just killing for sport anymore?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not really. Well, I suppose that's still a part of it. He enjoys the fear and the horror and the panic that he causes, and that won't change, but now he's bringing me into this. He wanted a challenger, someone to offer some sort of opposition, and now I think it's as much about beating me as it is about the women he kills. In a way, it's still about fear, but this time, he's trying to make sure that I fear him just as much as his victims have."

Ellie lightly touched his shoulder. "You'll get him."

Sherlock looked down at her. "Oh, I know I will. I'm just hoping he doesn't try anything too rash before I do." He turned to Molly who was still standing awkwardly beside him. "Thank you for letting me examine the body. I think we'll be off now." He waltzed out of the room without another word.

"O-okay, see you later then," Molly called after him. She looked slightly dejected as the door swung shut. "That's the first time he's properly thanked me," she announced softly, though Ellie couldn't tell who she was speaking to.

Ellie cleared her throat, suddenly finding it very easy to feel bad for Ms. Hooper. "Well, Molly, it's been a pleasure, but I'd better catch up to him or he'll leave without me."

The other girl looked at her a bit sadly before saying, "Oh, I don't think he'd do that."

Ellie wasn't sure why Molly suddenly sounded so profound with that statement, so she muttered, "Right," and was on her way.

Thankfully, Sherlock didn't leave without her, and instead she found him waiting impatiently right outside the door.

~oOo~

"I'm off to get some more milk," Ellie announced that afternoon.

Sherlock was draped across the couch watching crap telly. He had claimed that he needed a short break from the case until there was more available information. Ellie wasn't exactly sure what that meant or when that would happen, but she was glad that he was taking some time off. She had started to worry that he might suffer from sensory overload or something along those lines.

"Hmm," Sherlock mumbled, nodding his head slightly to acknowledge that he heard her.

As she walked out the door, she could have sworn she heard him shout at the television, "Oh, don't be an idiot! Just look at his left thumb; it'll tell you everything."

When she had finished purchasing a new carton of milk, Ellie received a text from Sherlock.

_Pick up dinner while you're out. SH_

_On it. EA_

As she shoved her mobile back into her pocket, a sleek black car pulled up beside her. At first she ignored it and continued walking down the street. Her phone rang and for a moment she thought it was Sherlock. Whoever was calling, however, did not have a number that her phone recognized.

"Hello," she greeted slowly upon answering.

"Miss Archer," an unfamiliar male voice responded. "I believe we have some business to discuss."

Ellie looked around, suddenly suspicious. Her eyes landed on the black car that was slowly inching its way toward her. She stared it down as she said, "How can I have business with someone I don't even know?"

There was a soft chuckle from the other end of the call. "Well, I know you, and that's all that really matters. Besides, I believe we have a common acquaintance: Sherlock Holmes."

"How do you know Sherlock?"

"Let's just say I take a personal interest in what goes on in his life." For the briefest moment, Ellie wondered if this was the Terror contacting her, but the man she was speaking to quickly picked up on this worry of hers. "No, don't worry, Miss Archer, I'm not the serial killer you're chasing. I assure you that I'm merely a concerned third party. So if you would please get into the car, we can discuss this matter face to face."

Ellie glared at the vehicle in question as it pulled up beside her once more. "Why would I possibly do that? As I've said, I don't know who you are, I have no clue what you want, and quite frankly, I don't trust you in the slightest."

"I understand your misgivings about this arrangement, but I assure you that I mean you no harm," the voice promised. "What if I tell you that you'll be able to keep your mobile with you the whole time?"

"Well, considering I _don't trust anything you say_, hearing empty promises like that won't get you very far," she replied, walking farther away from the car.

"Look at the cameras."

Ellie obeyed, glancing up at the four security cameras in the area. Each one of them simultaneously turned until it was pointed at her, hurriedly swiveled away, and almost immediately spun back.

"How are you doing that? How are you messing with the cameras?" she questioned. She was really starting to worry now. If this man had the power to control what these cameras were doing, what else could he do?

"I assure you there's much more than just that," he assured as if he could hear her thoughts. In that sense, this stranger almost reminded her of Sherlock, and in the end, that's probably why she cautiously approached the waiting car. "Please don't fret so much, Miss Archer. If I really were trying to harm you, why would I do it when the sun is still up, in the middle of a busy street, with several security cameras all recording what's happening? Honestly, it would be very impractical."

That was hardly reassuring, but she had to admit that there was a fair point in that argument. She made her way to the vehicle, noting that the windows were far too tinted to see inside. The door swung open, and the only occupant was a young woman with her eyes and fingers glued to a BlackBerry. As far as Ellie could see, there was no immediate threat in sight. The female passenger didn't have a gun or any visible weapons, so Ellie slowly climbed into the backseat.

"Where are we going?" she asked tensely as the car started to move.

The woman merely looked up, offered her a brief smile, and then focused once more on her mobile.

_This is ridiculous, _Ellie thought. _I'm going to be killed. Why the hell did I ever get myself into this mess? _She looked down at the carton of milk in its bag on the seat beside her. How odd would it be for Sherlock to find her body like this? At least he would know that she'd gotten the much needed milk.

Several minutes later, the vehicle stopped just outside an abandoned building. The other woman didn't say anything, but Ellie took the opportunity to get out of the car. She slowly walked through the open door before her, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the subpar lighting.

In the center of the room, a man was waiting. He was about average height with a roundish face and an awkward hairstyle. His smile looked horribly fake and his eyes were almost empty. He wore an expensive-looking suit and his shiny designer shoes gleamed even in the dim light.

"Welcome, Miss Archer," he greeted.

"Please, call me Ellie," she responded with the same faked politeness. Internally, she was tense beyond all measure. She kept one hand on the phone in her pocket as she took measured steps toward the stranger.

"Well, then, Ellie, I mentioned earlier that we had some business to discuss. Essentially, I've been keeping an eye on Sherlock Holmes." The man twirled a long black umbrella between his fingers.

"Why would you do that?"

He sighed. "I worry about him; I really do. I've been keeping tabs on what happens in his life, and recently I've noticed an escalation in your relationship with him." When Ellie didn't reply, he added, "You met him on a blind date that neither of you were interested in, and a few days later he started to consult you on cases, and just shortly after that you moved into 221 B Baker Street. Dates, then colleagues, then flat-mates, and now…friends?"

"Sounds about right," Ellie said shortly. She angled her body toward the door so she could make a run for it if necessary. She was still idly playing with the mobile in her pocket.

"Do relax," the man advised. "You're making the atmosphere so much less comfortable."

At that she let out a short laugh. "Let me give you a little tip for the future: if you want to make someone feel comfortable, don't abduct them and bring them to a sketchy old building."

He smiled slightly and shook his head. "You know, I do recall John Watson saying almost the exact same thing to me during one of our visits."

Ellie perked up at the familiar name. "You know John?"

He raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Of course I know him; I know everyone." Instead he said, "Yes, Doctor Watson and I are very well acquainted. I gave him the same offer that I'm about to give to you."

"Which is?"

"I'm willing to offer you a sizable sum of money, a regular income. I'm aware that you have yet to find a proper job, and I feel that this salary of sorts would help you cope with that."

Ellie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "In return for what?"

"Information," he said simply. "As I've said, I do worry about Sherlock, and I'd like you to keep me informed about what he's been up to. It would be nothing you'd feel uncomfortable disclosing, I assure you."

"I'm sorry, but I think I'm going to have to decline."

He didn't look particularly surprised by her answer. "And why is that?"

She shook her head. "I'm not going to _spy _on Sherlock for you. He's my _friend_, and I would never betray his trust like that."

The man sighed, disappointed. "Very well. You're free to leave if that really is your final answer."

Ellie turned and was halfway to the door before she spun to face him again. "You didn't really expect me to accept the offer, did you?"

"No, I can't say that I did. I've seen enough of your relationship with him to know that you care deeply for him, and in my experience, people who care deeply for someone else do not typically choose to spy on that person."

And with that, Ellie tightened her grip on the plastic bag in her hand and headed back to the safety of the flat.

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><p><strong>Remember to review with your thoughts on this chapter and your ideas for what should happen next in the story!<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**I'd like to give a special thanks to Strazza, who offered me some really good ideas, and an _extra _special thank-you to CarpeDiemForLife, who helped me out a lot as well, especially while I was writing this chapter.**

**All suggestions are still welcome, so feel free to let me know if you have any ideas for what could happen in the chapters coming up.**

**Anywho, I'm sorry again that there's not much action in this one. It's more centered around Sherlock and Ellie than around the killer, but I promise that there'll be some more excitement and murder-ish stuff soon.**

* * *

><p>Nearly five days had passed since Natalie Calhoun's murder, and during that time, the Terror made no further attempts to communicate with them. He seemed to be biding his time until he could make his next big move, and no one could tell what exactly he had planned.<p>

Ellie was growing more and more anxious by the hour, and with living at 221 B already being so high-stress, she soon found herself in a constant state of tension. Sherlock didn't do anything to help ease her overwhelming anxiety as he often brought her along on night-long prowls through the city in the hopes of finding a solid lead. As a result, Ellie found that she had very little time to get sleep, and she was so deprived of any and all rest that she was amazed she could still stand. To top that off, she hadn't had a proper meal in the last seventy-two hours, which made her quite irritable.

She awoke once more after a brief nightmare. Those had been plaguing her dreams with an alarming frequency, often keeping her up. She rubbed her eyes blearily and rolled out of bed. Her stomach growled angrily, and she quickly made her way downstairs to remedy her hunger. Unfortunately, when she rummaged through the kitchen, all she found were a jar of livers, a severed hand, and something that looked like a rotting pancreas. She shut her eyes briefly and shook her head, frustration coming on much more quickly than it normally would have. Under the circumstances, she felt that she was justified in being upset.

Ellie also noticed that Sherlock was not in the flat. She wasn't angry with him for leaving her behind; that was just part of how he worked, and she had gotten used to that. Still, she was a bit irked that he wasn't there to hear her complain about finding a rotting pancreas rather than some breakfast.

Ellie hurriedly dressed, snatched her coat, and braved the morning air. As soon as she stepped outside, she became aware of the faint drizzling of rain that was coming down. _Perfect, _she thought sarcastically. _It'll start pouring later and I don't have an umbrella._ She contemplated going back inside and asking Mrs. Hudson for one, but she immediately remembered that the old woman had taken some of her herbal soothers just a few hours earlier and Ellie knew better than to disturb the landlady under their influence.

As Ellie made her way to the Tube, she noticed that her shoe was untied. She bent down to fix the limply hanging laces, and as soon as she was crouched down, a man walked by and ran into her as he passed. She lost her balance and tumbled completely to the floor. She glared at the man's retreating figure as she straightened herself up.

"This day could not get any worse," she mumbled bitterly to herself.

~oOo~

As Ellie wandered down the aisles of food, her phone buzzed, indicating a new text. She roughly pulled out the device and glared at Sherlock's name on the screen. His message served to worsen her mood.

_Come home immediately. SH_

She was absolutely miserable already, and the last thing she needed was for Sherlock to order her around without any consideration for what she might already be doing.

_No. EA_

She shoved the mobile back into her purse and went back to the shopping. Less than a minute passed before it buzzed once again.

_Yes. Whatever you're doing is irrelevant. SH_

Ellie could feel the familiar frustration rising up once more. "Irrelevant"—the word seemed to mock her from the tiny screen. Irrelevant, useless, unimportant—that seemed to classify everything she did, and now she was wondering if she herself was becoming these things. Irrelevant, dispensable, extraneous—she didn't want to hear Sherlock tell her that who she was and what she did fell into any of these categories. In the back of her mind, she knew that thinking any of these things was overanalyzing and blowing the situation way out of proportion, but at the moment, her sleep-deprived, hunger-induced, anxiety-based irritation was taking control.

_No, I'm not coming home just yet, and no, this isn't irrelevant. Buying food so that we have something to eat is IMPORTANT. I don't know if you understand that, but this is essential, and I'm not going to just abandon it because you've decided that you want some company. EA_

Ellie violently forced the phone back into her purse and walked down the next aisle. When she got home, all she wanted was a nice cup of tea, and it just so happened that they were all out of honey, which was vital to her plan for the perfect cuppa.

There was one bottle of honey left, and she let out a brief sigh of relief when she caught sight of it. She picked it up and carried it with her while she searched for some bread. Her phone buzzed for the third time, and Ellie practically slammed the honey onto a nearby shelf while she fished through her purse to retrieve the device.

A woman in her early forties swooped in out of nowhere and scooped up the abandoned bottle of honey.

"Um, excuse me," Ellie called after her, struggling to keep her voice level. "That was actually mine. I just set it down for a minute while I was looking for my phone."

The woman turned with a look of unhidden disdain adorning her face. "Well, as you said, you put it down, and I picked it up. It's mine now. Better luck next time," she said as she walked away.

"Bitch," Ellie muttered.

After an incredibly grueling hour of shopping, wherein everyone seemed intent on making her day much worse than it already was, Ellie finally emerged from the shop, her arms laden with bags. She was halfway down the street before she decided to check her phone to see what Sherlock had wanted earlier. The little notification on the screen indicated that she had four new messages.

_I'd say attempting to catch a killer is far more significant that picking up groceries. SH_

_Where's your laptop? SH_

_Never mind, found it. SH_

_Make sure to get some milk while you're out. I used the last of it during an experiment and I need some more. SH_

Ellie stared down at the texts in disbelief. She had just bought them some more milk a day or two earlier. Sherlock had promised _not _to use it in any form of experiment, although clearly he hadn't adhered to that at all.

She angrily stomped back into the store, grabbed a carton of milk, and was out of there as quickly as possible. Of course, the first time she emerged with the shopping the rain had nearly stopped, but now that she had to go back inside for some milk, the heavens decided to open up and there was a torrential downpour underway.

_Fantastic_.

As she struggled to find her way back to the Underground station that would lead her home, an icy wind picked up. She shivered as the rain and wind chilled her to the very core. To top it off, her knee began to ache. It was an old soccer injury that she'd sustained several years back, but it still pained her whenever she was particularly cold or particularly stressed; in this case, it seemed to be an equal portion of each.

When she finally made it onto the Tube, she sat down and heaved a great sigh. She was already wishing for the day to be over, and it couldn't have been later than noon.

Much to her disgust, the woman who had stolen her honey decided to take the seat just beside her. Ellie looked up at the ceiling, silently begging to powers that be to make this lady sit somewhere else. It wasn't as if there was any shortage of seats. The only other people in the compartment were two men and one elderly woman, and yet this god-awful, honey-stealing stranger decided to plague Ellie with her presence and proximity.

_I hate everything. Today sucks. I hate everything. Today sucks…_the mantra continued to ring through her head as the train began moving.

As they neared Ellie's stop, she became aware of a faint but familiar song playing.

_A long, long time ago, I can still remember how  
>That music used to make me smile.<br>And I knew if I had my chance,  
>I could make those people dance,<br>And maybe they'd be happy for a while._

As that first verse dragged on, Ellie realized that it was her phone that was playing the song. The music player on her mobile must have accidentally been activated, and now "American Pie" by Don McLean was being broadcasted to the other passengers.

"Shit," she muttered as she tried to reach her purse to turn off the device.

Her struggle to grab the mobile upset the bags that had been precariously balanced on her lap. They tumbled over and luckily only a few of the contents escaped. The woman beside her gave an irritated huff and looked at Ellie with such disgust that it was both hurtful and infuriating at the same time.

By the time Ellie had extracted her phone from her purse, the chorus was playing.

_So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie.  
>Drove my Chevy to the levee,<br>But the levee was dry.  
>And them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye,<br>Singing, "This'll be the day that I die."  
>This'll be the day that I die.<em>

Ellie shut off the device completely, making sure the screen went totally black before she shoved it back into her purse. She hurriedly gathered up the spilled groceries and had finished picking everything up when she reached the station she needed to get off at.

Just as she was about to leave, the woman who had stolen her honey just a short while before called out to her, "Next time, make sure you keep that thing down. No one wants to hear your pitiful taste in music." She offered a painfully fake smile and added, "Just a suggestion."

Ellie glared back at the insufferable woman. "For your information, 'American Pie' is a classic." She turned to leave but spun on her heel so she was facing the woman once again. "Next time, make sure you're not such a bitch to complete strangers. Just a suggestion." And with that, she stomped through the doors, completely ignoring the voice that told her to mind the gap.

~oOo~

Sherlock's day had not started out all that great. He'd gone to visit an old acquaintance of sorts, one that he hoped could offer some information on the serial killer. However, he had soon been informed that his informant had been tossed into the Thames some weeks prior after what had been called a "minor disagreement." Sherlock was then promptly (and literally) thrown out of the building and told not to come back or "you'll be joining your little friend at the bottom of the river."

Sherlock had brushed himself off and returned home, expecting to find Ellie eagerly waiting to hear about his morning. Instead, he found an empty flat and received a few less than pleasant texts from his flat-mate. She was upset—that much was clear—but he hadn't even been home, so it was ridiculous for her to be angry with him. What could he have done from the other side of town?

Rather than waiting for her to get back, he decided to head out to Scotland Yard to see if Lestrade and his team had found anything new. The very idea of them discovering anything useful was laughable, but Sherlock needed some way to occupy himself. Besides, Lestrade had been pestering him about coming in to offer them some assistance, so he assumed that now would be as good a time to do this as any.

When he arrived, he ran into Donovan on his way to the DI's office.

Upon noticing that he was alone, Sally said, "Where's your girlfriend, Freak? Did she finally come to her senses and leave?"

Sherlock was more bothered by that comment than he probably should have been. "Step aside, Sally. I've got some actual police business to take care of," he drawled, acting unaffected.

He pushed past her and walked right into Lestrade's office.

The detective inspector jumped a bit, surprised by Sherlock's sudden entrance. "Sherlock," Lestrade said, "you can't just barge in here. At least knock."

The consulting detective ignored the advice and asked, "So, have you found anything useful?"

Lestrade shook his head, a familiar grave expression crossing his features. "No, I'm afraid not. That's why I wanted you to come in." He looked imploringly at the other man. "You must have _something_."

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing conclusive. He's a man, about 5'8" and wearing size ten shoes. He's most likely working-class, no family, no friends, no real relationships. He probably has a job that limits his interactions with others, though he's still exposed to people in general. I'd say he's a maintenance worker or a janitor—something along those lines." Sherlock began to pace in the limited space of the office. "He's clever, but I doubt he ever went to university. If he did, he'd be widely known as a recluse, someone no one else wants to hang around with. I think he picks his victims almost randomly. Each woman is probably someone he's seen walking down the street or passing by him while he works. I doubt there's much more to it than that."

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face, sighing slightly. "Thanks. That's still not much to go on, but it's more than we've come up with. This guy doesn't leave any clues behind, and I'm worried that we won't be able to catch him before he strikes again."

Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at a point on the wall. "We've got to get him. This game has gone on for far too long. He thinks he's winning, and we've got to prove him wrong."

~oOo~

When Sherlock got back to the flat, he immediately noted that the groceries were put away, but once again Ellie was gone. He didn't have time to ponder where his friend might have headed off to, because he also noticed that a very unwelcome visitor was currently seated on the sofa.

Mycroft Holmes glanced up as his brother entered the room. "Ah, Sherlock, welcome," he greeted as if it were his home and Sherlock was visiting.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with the usual hostility. He was displeased to find that the elder Holmes was sitting on Ellie's side of the couch. It seemed wrong from him to be in that spot.

"We've got a lot to talk about," Mycroft replied. He twirled that infernal umbrella between his fingers. "Please, sit." Sherlock remained standing, mainly just to go against what his brother had commanded. Mycroft sighed. "Always so stubborn. Have it your way." He shifted in his seat slightly and said, "I've come to discuss this London Terror business."

"What interest could the British government possibly have in a simple-minded serial killer?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Not so simple-minded, it would seem, as this killer has managed to elude both Scotland Yard _and_ the world's only consulting detective." Sherlock glowered at him in response. "Well, I just wanted to remind you not to get so wrapped up in the chase. I know you do get ever so infatuated with clever killers like this one, but try to remember to take a step back every once in a while. I've noticed that you seem to be rather _stuck _on this case—you're hitting a wall, so to speak. I'd rather not see you keep hitting the same wall over and over again, when all you have to do is step back and find a different approach."

"Well," Sherlock said, "if that's all you came here to say, you'd best be on your way." He gestured toward the door.

Mycroft merely smiled lightly. He ignored the invitation to leave. "How is Miss Archer holding up?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Like you don't already know."

"I had the pleasure of meeting her just a few days ago," he said, pretending not to hear his brother's previous remark. "Although I'm sure you deduced that quite easily."

"It was child's play, really."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I suppose it was. She seems quite lovely. I daresay you two are getting on very well."

Sherlock briefly recalled Ellie's unfriendly texts from earlier as well as her absence at that particular moment.

Mycroft seemed to read the memories as they flitted through his brother's mind. "Or not so well, as it would seem."

Sherlock straightened up slightly and looked down at his sibling. "Either way, it really isn't any of your business."

Mycroft released a put-upon sigh. "Sherlock, when will you realize that I'm just looking out for you? I've truly got your best interests at heart."

"I think we're done here."

Mycroft shook his head slightly. "Well, if that's how you feel about it, I suppose I'll be off." He stood from the couch and said, "I'll be in touch. And make sure to give Ellie my best."

Hearing Mycroft call her "Ellie" as if they were old friends made Sherlock unreasonably upset. He wasn't fond of the familiarity in the term, and he would have much rather heard his brother continue to call her "Miss Archer." Mycroft shouldn't get to act as if he was as well-acquainted with her as Sherlock was.

When the door swung shut after the man, Sherlock threw himself violently onto the couch. Visits from his brother could always manage to worsen his mood by 200%. He jumped up from the sofa and paced the room, leftover irritation making rational thought difficult. Sherlock soon grabbed his violin from its case and began to scrape away at the poor instrument. The discordant and harsh notes issuing from the tortured strings masked the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Sherlock was only alerted to the presence of someone else in the flat when he heard the door slam shut loudly. He turned, not ceasing his abuse of the violin, and saw Ellie standing there with frustration and clear annoyance evident in her eyes.

"Could you at least play some music or something rather than just beating the violin with the bow?" she asked bitterly.

"It helps me think," he replied, just as unpleasant.

"Yeah, well it's loud and annoying, and I need some peace and quiet."

As she hung her jacket up on the coatrack, Sherlock noticed that she was favoring her right leg. There was no sign of any recent trauma, so it must have been an old injury that was acting up because of the cold, rainy weather.

He played one final, unfortunate note before placing the violin back in its case. "Where were you?" he asked, trying to maintain normal conversation. He needed her to say engage in the small talk that they both hated so much; it would help take his mind of the irksome visit from Mycroft.

"Like you don't know," she snapped. There was a brief pause in which she took a calming break, and she soon added, "At the park."

"It's pouring rain," he pointed out.

"So I'd noticed."

Sherlock nodded tersely. This was most certainly not helping him release some of his previous frustration, and he decided to retreat to his room. Before he got more than three steps away, however, Ellie called out to him.

"Sherlock, what the hell is this?"

He glanced at where she was sitting at the kitchen table. She had her laptop open in front of her, though the screen was black.

"That would be your laptop," he replied shortly. Honestly, did she have to be so mundane right now?

"Yes, you idiot, I'm aware of that, but why is it not turning on?"

"It ran out of battery while I was using it."

"And you couldn't have plugged it in to charge?" She looked at him and it was clear that he was annoyed with this conversation. "Sherlock, I had a résumé and a job application open on this. I was in the middle of filling them out, and now I'll have to do it all over again."

He shrugged, not bothered by her distress. "That's your fault for not saving all the work."

_That's your fault_…

All the stress, anxiety, frustration, and aggression that had been building up for the whole day bubbled to the surface and Ellie practically shouted, "How is it my fault? You're the one who stole the laptop; you're the one who's responsible for not plugging it in. It's your fault, Sherlock. Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, I might be working on something important? Did you ever think, 'Hmm, it's running out of battery; perhaps I should _plug it in_?'"

He rolled his eyes, allowing the irritation leftover from Mycroft's visit to choose his words rather than any of his immense logic. "No, I didn't. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got better things to do than to sit here and listen to your boring, irrelevant problems."

_Irrelevant, useless, unimportant. Irrelevant, dispensable, extraneous._

Ellie felt as if she had been slapped in the face. Of course, there was no real reason to take those words so seriously. She knew that Sherlock was upset, and she knew that they were both saying things they probably didn't mean. Still, feeling useless and dispensable, unimportant and extraneous, was not something that she wanted to get used to. She needed to get out for a bit. She needed a break.

"Well, I guess I'll just get going then," she said, lowering her voice to its normal level. She hadn't realized that both she and Sherlock had been yelling. "If I'm so _boring and irrelevant_, I guess I don't need to hinder the great Sherlock Holmes with my presence any longer."

She slammed the door with alarming force and stormed out.

Sherlock stared after her, his anger quickly abating. Perhaps he had been too harsh. He'd known that she hadn't been having a great day, and he still insisted on being his usual arrogant self. He knew she would end up going to John and Sara's place, as they were the only other people she really knew in all of England. But he wouldn't go after her that night. No, he'd wait until the next day, give her time to cool off. She would be ready to come back by then, right? This was merely a temporary disagreement; they'd both get over it soon, wouldn't they?

Outside, Ellie walked aimlessly down the street. She headed vaguely in the direction of John and Sara's house. Hopefully they'd be willing enough to let her stay the night.

Before she was even halfway there, Ellie felt hot tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. She knew she was being stupid, and Sherlock was being stupid, and this whole argument was stupid. The whole day had been stupid, really—it was just one, giant, unfair mess of awfulness; she wanted nothing more than to undo it all. And to think, all she'd wanted that morning was some honey for her tea. The way Ellie saw it, the bitch from the store was the one to blame for all of this. She was the one that caused the irritation to start, and from then it snowballed out of control.

A few yards away, a man sat on a bench and watched Ellie crying out her frustration.

_Yes, _he thought. _She'll do nicely._

He got up and walked away, humming a chilling song under his breath:

_Tick, tock, goes the clock.  
>And what then shall we see?<br>Tick, tock, goes the clock.  
>You can't escape from me.<em>

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><p><strong>Reviews, as always, are welcomed and encouraged.<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Warning: I haven't really edited this chapter. It's quite possible that there will be some mistakes in here. Please feel free to point them out.**

**Also, thank you so much to everyone who has left all those lovely reviews! I can't tell you how much they mean to me. It brightens my day to hear all the positive feedback you guys have been giving me. Thank you so much!**

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><p>A sharp prod to the stomach woke Sherlock from his uneasy slumber. He kept his eyes shut tightly as memories of their fight the night before flooded back to him. He hadn't felt good at all after Ellie had walked out. He had ended up falling asleep on the couch, half-expecting—and secretly hoping—that she would come back.<p>

She hadn't.

Another jab to the abdomen caused Sherlock to finally pry his eyes open. He glared up at Mycroft who had been poking him with the end of his umbrella.

"Two visits in two days," Sherlock commented in his usual condescending and bored tone. "This must be a new record. To what do I owe the displeasure?"

Mycroft shoved Sherlock's feet aside so that he could sit. Again, Sherlock observed unhappily, he had taken Ellie's spot. Mycroft opened Ellie's laptop. It had been resting on the coffee table, fully charged—a peace offering, an indirect apology. He took a disk out of his pocket and inserted it into the computer.

"I thought you should see this," Mycroft said vaguely. "It's some footage that was picked up by CCTV cameras near John and Sara's place."

Sherlock suddenly felt very uneasy about all of this. He turned his eyes toward the screen. The video that was playing was grainy and disrupted by splotches of rain. Even still, he could make out Ellie's slim figure walking alone and battling the wind. She brought her hand up to wipe something off her cheek. Even with the poor quality of the tape, he could tell that she wasn't clearing away stray raindrops, but rather she was brushing away tears.

"Why are you showing me this?" His voice was clipped and tense. He didn't want to see her cry, especially when he knew he was the cause. The familiar and unwelcome bout of guilt burrowed back into his stomach, and he wondered why he was letting this affect him in this way.

Mycroft pointed to another figure on the screen that Sherlock had not previously noticed. "Pay attention to him."

There was a man sitting on a bench, a flimsy umbrella hovering above his head. He soon got up, dropping the umbrella to his side, and walked around behind Ellie. Sherlock didn't trust this stranger, and he once again felt the sinking discomfort and dread take hold.

"Who is that?" Sherlock demanded to know. This mysterious figure was getting far too close, looking at Ellie for far too long, and the consulting detective didn't think he would like where this conversation was going.

"I believe that this man is the so-called London Terror," Mycroft explained calmly.

With his suspicions confirmed, Sherlock's uneasiness grew exponentially. He watched the serial killer prowl around Ellie without her knowledge. Then, quite suddenly, the man lifted his head and stared directly into the camera. His hair was dark and flattened against his head from the rain, and his lips twitched upward into a slow and haunting smile. Despite the fact that it was impossible to really discern any distinctive facial features from the grainy video, Sherlock was sure that the Terror's grin was psychotic and his eyes were glinting deviously. Mycroft paused the footage there, with that twisted face smiling up at them.

Sherlock was having a hard time looking way from the laptop. The flurry of emotions that had eagerly overwhelmed his previous aloofness was all but crippling. He had often said that blind guesses were the keenest destroyer of his logical faculties, but he now had to admit that all of this _feeling _that had rather rudely shoved its way into his mind was causing some serious damage to his mental strength.

"Did he do anything to her?" Sherlock finally asked. His voice was expressionless and his face was a carefully neutral mask.

Mycroft shook his head. He pitied his brother. Despite the fact that both men claimed to be sociopaths, it was clear that Sherlock truly did care about a select few people. Unfortunately, caring facilitated much darker, more desperate emotions. The elder Holmes understood that Sherlock had formed such an attachment to Ellie that should anything happen to her, he would undoubtedly react in a frighteningly negative way.

"No," Mycroft assured him. "After his little smile here, he left. Miss Archer arrived safely at John and Sara's where she spent the night. Still, this does prove that the killer is getting more brazen, as it were. He's shown his face, he's approaching someone you care deeply for, and it's only a matter of time before he tries something a bit more _audacious_."

Sherlock gazed at his older brother, and for a fleeting moment, something akin to trust passed over his features. The expression was gone almost immediately, but Mycroft strongly reminded of a time when they were children and Sherlock had looked up to him. It was pleasant to see that again, no matter how quickly it vanished.

"You don't think he'll harm her?" the consulting detective asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "No, I don't believe so. At least not yet, anyway. I imagine this little stunt was more to prove that he _can _get to you. However, if I were you, I'd keep a close eye on your friend. I'm sure that this man has no qualms about bringing her into this, as he's clearly shown here."

Sherlock merely nodded curtly.

Mycroft took his brother's lack of response as an invitation to leave, so he removed the disk from the computer and walked toward the door. He turned back right before he left, but Sherlock was staring distantly at a point on the wall. Mycroft sighed and said, "Do take care of yourself."

Sherlock was aware of the door shutting behind Mycroft, and as soon as he was certain that the other man had truly left the building, he pulled out his phone and hurriedly dialed John's number.

"What's wrong?" John asked immediately upon answering. His voice was laced with anxious concern.

Sherlock furrowed his brow slightly in confusion. "What do you mean? Don't people typically say, 'Hello,' when greeting their callers?"

"That's the thing, Sherlock," his friend told him, some of the tension leaving his voice. "You never call. You prefer to text, remember?"

_Oh_. That was true; Sherlock rarely ever phoned someone unless it was absolutely crucial. It was one of the many respects in which he and his brother were polar opposites. "Well, this is important," he replied. "It's about Ellie."

Though Sherlock couldn't tell, John was smiling on the other end of the call. "What exactly about her? I heard you two had a bit of a 'domestic' last night. Does that have anything to do with it?"

Sherlock felt that odd combination of guilt and shame squirm around in the very pit of his stomach. He attempted to remove all audible traces of his current discomfort, though he wasn't quite sure he succeeded, when he said, "No, this is much…_graver_ than that row."

"What is it?" John's voice had snapped back into that tone of alert concern.

"Is she in the room with you?"

"No, she's upstairs with Sara. Why?"

Rather than truly answer the question, Sherlock merely replied, "Please don't tell her what I'm about to share with you. It will cause her some...unnecessary stress."

Sherlock was honestly worried that knowing about the Terror's interest in her would frighten her. Of course, he really didn't wanther to be scared at all, because she was a good person who deserved to be perfectly comfortable in life. Still, he was also a bit concerned that if this serial killer truly terrified her, she might decide that Sherlock's dangerous lifestyle wasn't worth being a part of. If the Terror's threats got to her, there wouldn't be anything Sherlock could do to keep her from leaving. There wasn't much to entice her to stay—she had a difficult flat-mate who put her life in danger, she had no time to find a real job because her flat-mate screwed up all of her attempts, and she had to deal with her flat-mate's constant and gruesome experiments. In the end, the negative aspects of living at 221 B _far _exceeded the very few and miniscule positives.

_So, _Sherlock concluded, _she shouldn't know about this at all. Until the Terror makes a clear and absolute threat, I don't see any need to worry her with this little bit of information._

Sherlock proceeded to recount to John a brief summary of the CCTV footage that Mycroft had shown him.

When Sherlock had finished his narrative, John paused for a moment to absorb the information before asking, "Is she in danger?"

"Possibly. I'm…not sure. I don't think he'll try anything right away, but he's clearly fixated on her. It's quite possible that he will try to…harm her sometime in the future, but I don't see that being his next move." Sherlock ran a hand through his messy mop of hair. Fearing for someone else's life, being unsure of how to protect a close friend, worrying this severely about a highly valued companion: it was all exhausting, and Sherlock couldn't rid himself of this intense and smothering _concern _he felt. He knew that he could probably distance himself from Ellie, cut her off completely to prevent himself from caring at all, but the idea of doing something like that was highly unsavory.

"What can I do to help?" John could tell that this was of devastating importance to his friend.

"Nothing, I can handle it," Sherlock replied, lacking some of his usual brash confidence. He soon added, "Actually, could I borrow your gun?"

Flashbacks of a yellow smiley face's damaged grin and of a rather unfortunate incident with the toaster flitted through John's mind.

Sherlock, sensing the hesitation, rolled his eyes and said, "Come _on, _John. I'm not going to shoot the wall again, if that's what you're worried about. I probably won't even need to use the gun. Even still, it would be ideal to have that sort of precautionary measure…just in case."

Although Sherlock seemed to be slowly transitioning back to his usual self, John could still hear the faint and consistent undertone of worry in the other man's voice. He reminded himself that this was Sherlock-I'm-a-high-functioning-sociopath-Holmes, who openly claimed to be detached and uninterested in others. If Sherlock was feeling the need to protect someone else…well, she must be pretty damn important to him. As one of Sherlock's only friends, John could not stand idly by while someone that the consulting detective clearly cared deeply for was put in jeopardy.

John sighed. "Fine, you can borrow the gun. _But _I want it back the second this case is over." He paused. "You should come over to get it, and while you're here you can apologize to Ellie."

That wasn't _quite _ideal. Sherlock Holmes never apologized, but he did have the overwhelming urge to keep Ellie in his sight until the Terror's threat blew over. He ultimately decided that her safety was more important than his own stoic pride, and he knew that he would have to muster up some weak, "I'm sorry," to fix everything.

"Alright," he replied. "I'll be over in about an hour. Make sure Ellie doesn't leave your house for anything."

"Right, right. No one's coming out, and no one's coming in. We'll be on lockdown until you get here."

Sherlock was just about to hang up when he thought of how kind it was of John to help him out like this. "Oh, and thank you." He ended the call just before he got to hear John's surprised huff. That was the first time Sherlock had really thanked him since to pool incident with Moriarty.

The consulting detective dressed quickly and was pulling on his coat when Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs.

"How are you doing then, Sherlock?" she asked. "I noticed that your brother stopped by for a visit, and I know that those always upset you. Do you want me to make you some tea? That might cheer you up a bit."

"I'm afraid I can't really stay for tea and a chat," he explained, grabbing his scarf. "I've got to run to John's house to fetch Ellie and a gun."

The landlady nodded, not finding anything odd about that statement whatsoever. "I heard that awful row you and Ellie had last night." She shook her head sadly. "Dreadful. I do hope you weren't too hard on her. I really do like her, and I know that you like her as well."

"Of course I like her. She's my flat-mate and my assistant; it would be incredibly awkward if I didn't." He slipped on his gloves and tried to sidestep Mrs. Hudson, but the oblivious woman continued to stand in the very center of the doorway.

"Well, you two really must make up soon. It's not good for couples to fight for very long," she advised wisely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson, we aren't _actually _a couple. There is nothing romantic in the slightest about our relationship."

Her answering smile was small and knowing. Sherlock hated that expression, the one which meant that someone else knew something that he didn't. "There's enough there for you two to be together. You care enough about each other; you do everything together; you live together; you're great friends; you rely on each other. It's all there. All you've got to do is take the first step into making it something."

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. This has been eye-opening. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a few pressing matters to take care of." He gently moved the landlady out of the way and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "I should be back shortly."

The old woman watched fondly as he trotted down the steps. "He'll figure it out soon enough," she muttered quietly.

~oOo~

Ellie stared at the ceiling of John and Sara's guest bedroom. She'd been up for hours already. After a brief bout of sleep, she awoke feeling both physically and emotionally recuperated. However, that allowed her to clear-headedly analyze her fight with Sherlock. The very thought of her extreme overreaction made her blush.

_I'm an idiot_, she concurred. _I'm an absolute idiot who has just yelled at my closest friend._

As the morning dragged on, she decided that she would head over to Baker Street later that day and beg for forgiveness. Sure, Sherlock's insensitivity and inconsiderateness had greatly contributed to their row, but her own bad mood had really been the catalyst for the whole thing.

Shortly before noon, Ellie heard the familiar baritone voice coming from downstairs. Her heart fluttered nervously and her stomach felt a bit light. That was an odd reaction to realizing the presence of a friend, but she had been having so many odd reactions to things recently that it was very easy to brush that aside.

She slowly climbed downstairs and saw Sherlock engaged in an intense conversation with John. The two men immediately noticed her presence.

"Ellie, good morning," John greeted pleasantly, though it was clear that he recognized the awkwardness of the situation.

"Ellie, about last night…" Sherlock kept his eyes focused on some obscure point on the wall. His face was blank and his voice held his usual bored and expressionless tone. "I, well, it's clear that some things were said…and, well, I'm…"

Ellie didn't buy into his nonchalant façade. She knew that despite his cool exterior at the moment, he must be pretty flustered internally. It took a lot for Sherlock Holmes to stumble over his words like that. Rather than watch him continue to suffer through that rather pitiful attempt at an apology, she said, "Yeah, me too."

He was sorry, and she was sorry, and she saw no reason for the two of them to dwell on that any longer.

Sherlock looked up and Ellie was smiling at him, and he couldn't help but grin in return. He felt bad for the rest of the population, because he was almost certain that none of them had someone who understood them as clearly as Ellie understood him.

"Fantastic," he replied.

Before the conversation continued any farther, Sherlock felt his phone buzz. He pulled out the device and noticed that he had received a text from Lestrade:

_Another body. Looks like the Terror again._

Attached was an address not too far from where they already were.

As Sherlock typed back a brief response, he said, "Ellie, we've got to go. Scotland Yard has found another body and—as always—they need our help."

~oOo~

He watched with beady eyes and a twisted smile as Ellie and Sherlock climbed into the back of the cab. He knew they were on their way to the latest crime scene, his most recent masterpiece. Killing that one had been particularly fun. She was such a horrid person that terrifying her was almost twice as enjoyable.

He was in a fantastic mood as he observed their cab driving off and his grin widened to prove it. This was where the game got so much more _interesting_. For him, now was where the _real _fun began.

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**Hopefully I'll have the next chapter up very soon. I've got four tests for my four AP classes crammed into the beginning of this week, so I've got to get studying for those. In all probability, though, I might end up procrastinating, which might possibly result in another chapter of this.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello, dear readers! Welcome to this chapter. Thanks for all the support I've gotten on the previous ones. I really appreciate it!**

**I'd like to give a special shout-out to Joe-Kerr001 who private messaged me. Thanks for your lovely words about the story J-K.**

**Thank you to all the silent-readers-turned-reviewers out there, especially FifteenFathomsCounting. You guys are all really awesome and I can't tell you how much I enjoy hearing all the comments you have on the story.**

**I'd also like to give a shout-out to JonesEffectStories. You, my friend, are quite brilliant. **

**And, of course, thank you to all those who I didn't mention in this little author's note. I'm really appreciative of anyone and everyone who takes the time to read this story.**

**Anyway, on with the mystery!**

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><p>The victim was forty-year-old Monica Walters. She, like Natalie Calhoun, was murdered in her own home. Ms. Walters' flat was consequently swarming with officers when Ellie and Sherlock arrived at the scene.<p>

"The body is in the bedroom just over there," Lestrade informed the duo. "She was killed just like the others. The note's a bit funny on this one, though. It's not really like all the other rhymes."

"Well, then," Sherlock said, clapping his hands together. "Let's take a look, shall we?"

Ellie followed him into the back bedroom and saw the victim sprawled out on the floor just beside the bed. As she crouched down to better examine the unfortunate corpse, a feeling of recognition overcame her. After a brief moment of deliberation, she soon realized that this dead woman was in fact the horrid honey-stealer from the previous day at the shop.

Sherlock noticed his companion's pause and asked, "Is something wrong?" He already knew the answer, of course, but he felt that it would be better if he pretended to be in the dark on this one. This victim was clearly meant as a message or a taunt, and it was obvious that the killing was directed at Ellie. She and Sherlock spent nearly all of their time together, the only exception being the day before when she had gone out to pick up the shopping. Because she recognized the corpse and he didn't, he felt safe in his assumption that this body belonged to someone Ellie had encountered during that brief excursion. Judging by Ellie's tetchy mood when she got home from the trip, she and the victim had not had a pleasant exchange.

"I…well, I know this woman," she explained, unable to take her eyes off the body. Monica Walters' fear was still evident in the cold, set lines of her face. "We, uh, we had a bit of a run-in at the shop yesterday." Ellie finally glanced up at Sherlock and noticed the barely covered concern in his expression. She misinterpreted it as a manifestation of Sherlock's worry that she would let her association with the victim affect her judgment on this matter. "Don't worry about it. I won't let my row with her get in the way."

Sherlock nodded and turned away. He knew that Ellie would still be professional. What he was actually worried about was whether or not this meant the killer would be targeting Ellie soon. Her acquaintance with Monica Walters strongly suggested that this was more than just another murder, and instead it was more of a taunt or a warning of what was to come. Sherlock did not want one of his only friends to be put in harm's way, and he most certainly hoped that he could catch the Terror before anything more extreme happened.

"Anything interesting?" he asked.

"Well, her throat was slit," Ellie replied. "But it doesn't look like the killer beat her like he did with the others. There are no new bruises or signs of trauma anywhere. The knife wound looks sort of different on this one, too. The angle looks _off_ here. Take a look."

Sherlock knelt down to examine the body. He nodded. "Yes, I'd say she was killed from behind rather than from the front. That doesn't fit the Terror's usual pattern." He turned to Lestrade. "You said the note was different this time, didn't you? An unusual note, no bruises, and a different means of killing: none of that coincides with what he's done so far."

Lestrade furrowed his brow. "What does that mean? Is this a copycat or something?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, that's very doubtful. But the Terror is a creature of habit. He's meticulous, precise, and he truly thrives off the fear he causes. He killed Monica Walters from behind, which must have caused much less horror than he usually does. He didn't taunt her before he did anything, which again means that she wouldn't have been as scared."

The consulting detective looked around the room, taking everything in. The whole place was neat. No sign of a struggle. He glanced at the windows. No sign of forced entry through there. He used the door then.

"He picked the lock on the door, snuck in quietly, didn't make a big fuss, and slit her throat from behind," Sherlock mumbled. "This murder wasn't about causing fear in Monica Walters. It meant something else."

"What does it mean then?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock looked up at him. "No idea."

Of course, he already had _several _ideas, but he wasn't keen on sharing any of them with Ellie in the room. There was, obviously, always the possibility that Ellie's connection to the victim was completely random, and that this unusual method of killing was merely the Terror shaking things up, but that was all highly unlikely. As Sherlock had already theorized, this murder was quite possibly a message to Ellie, meant to frighten her like the poems Natalie Calhoun had received. It was a warning, signaling a change in the game that was about to come. There was also the likelihood that Ms. Walters' death was meant as nothing more than a stab at Sherlock. By suggesting harm to someone that he cherished, the Terror was proving his dominance in their game. No matter which of these thoughts he entertained, Sherlock had no concrete proof to support any of them.

"Now," he said, "what about that note?" He extended a hand expectantly.

Lestrade pulled a paper within an evidence bag out of his pocket and placed it in Sherlock's outstretched palm. The poem was indeed much stranger than the previous ones. It read:

_Bye-bye, Miss American Pie.  
>Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry.<br>And that woman on the Tube made you whimper and cry.  
>And soon will be the day that you die.<br>Oh, yes, soon'll be the day that you die._

Sherlock looked up quizzically and found that Ellie had already read the note. She seemed to understand its significance more than Sherlock did. She had gone a touch paler and her eyes had widened fractionally. She was afraid—she understood that this was the killer's message to her and she was frightened by it. That was exactly what he'd been hoping to avoid. Ellie's fear was more than a bit not good. Not only did she not deserve to be terrified in this way, this also increased the likelihood that she would soon desire to move out.

But what could those scrambled lines mean and how did they manage to scare her so immediately? Sherlock knew that it must have something to do with Ellie's encounter with Monica Walters, as well as her displeasure from the previous day after doing the shopping. The killer must have somehow seen the two women interact and took a liking to Ellie. By coming after her, he would be killing two birds with one stone, as the expression goes. He would get his next victim while simultaneously crushing Sherlock in the game.

"What's so important about this poem?" he asked Ellie. "It worries you to see it, but why?"

"Remember how I mentioned that Ms. Walters and I got into a little fight at the shop?" she said. "Well, it didn't really end there. She sat next to me on the Underground on my way home and made some snarky comment when my phone's music player went off. It was playing that song," she explained, gesturing to the note. "Some of the words have been changed there, but that's definitely 'American Pie' on that paper." She focused her gaze solely on Sherlock and did her best to hide the fear she was feeling. "I think this means he's after me. I'm next."

~oOo~

Sherlock was frantically analyzing every scrap of _everything_. He had concluded his investigation of the bedroom and had now moved out into the living room. He needed to find _something_. This murderer wasn't allowed to threaten Ellie and then not leave anything behind. Sherlock spun around and pressed his hands together in front of his face. He could read Monica Walters' entire life story from that one room alone, but he couldn't tell a bloody thing about the killer.

In the bedroom, Ellie had finished her second examination of the body. When Lestrade had asked her why she was looking over the corpse once more, she had claimed that she wanted to be thorough. In truth, she just needed something to do, something to distract her from the very real possibility of a fast-approaching death.

As she stood from her secondary assessment, Donovan sauntered over and said, "I see you're still hanging around with the Freak. He's the reason this killer is targeting you in the first place."

"Yes, well," Ellie mumbled in reply. She didn't honestly blame Sherlock for any of this, and it was ridiculous for Sally to suggest that he was somehow at fault.

"He doesn't care about you, you know," Donovan continued.

Sherlock, who had been about to walk back into the bedroom, heard the topic of their conversation. He stepped just outside, behind the doorframe, which kept him out of sight but within earshot.

"In fact," Sally added, "I'll bet he'd give you up in a heartbeat if he thought it would give him more evidence. He might even be the killer himself for all we know. I wouldn't put it past him to do something like this."

Sherlock was about to interrupt right there. He didn't need Sally to scare Ellie off when the Terror was already doing such a great job. Plus, it was ludicrous to believe that Sherlock would let her get killed so that he could continue to play the game. Sally was way out of line in her suggestion of this, and he wanted to set the record straight, so to speak.

However, the consulting detective didn't have to say any of this quite yet as Ellie quickly stepped up to defend him. "With all due respect, Sergeant Donovan," she said calmly, "you are an absolute _idiot_. You might be right about Sherlock not caring about me, but I care about him. He's one of my closest friends, and I really hate hearing people mindlessly slandering a friend like you just have. You're so intent on proving that he's a bad man that you never even bothered to check if he has an alibi—which he does, at least for Calhoun's murder." Ellie wasn't looking at Sally as she spoke, but rather she was staring evenly at the opposite wall. She kept her voice level but there was a certain undeniable intensity to it. "So please, stop trying to scare me away from him with these accusations, because I can assure you that it's not going to work. He's brilliant, and sarcastic, and secretly caring, and I wouldn't trade any of that for whatever safety you think I might have without him. Sherlock is the greatest, most complicated, most remarkable, and most infuriatingly overwhelming man I know, and if you think he's some heartless killer, then you really don't know him at all."

A spell of stunned silence followed. Sherlock, still remaining just out of sight, felt something upon hearing those words. He wasn't exactly sure what it was, but he ultimately concluded that he was _happy_. But not just happy—no, he also felt sort of warm. It was a rather pleasant sort of feeling, and he found that he could get quite used to it. As he replayed the conversation in his head, his lips twitched upward without his consent. No matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to remove that growing smile from his face. It was odd, not being able to control something like this, but he was so pleased by what Ellie had said that he was almost willing to suffer the consequence of that ridiculous grin.

He went through her rant over and over and over again, and the effect did not wear off. He eventually noticed one of the things Ellie had said. _You might be right about Sherlock not caring about me_. How could she think that? Of course he cared about her. Hadn't his keeping her around proved that enough? Didn't his vulnerability with her after Calhoun's murder show just how important she was? _Well, _he thought, still with that un-squash-able smile. _I'll just have to do better at showing her that I care._

But before he made any plans on how to demonstrate his affinity for her, he relived what Ellie had said once more, and then once more after that, until he was completely sure he had committed it to his hard-drive. For whatever reason, he found himself incredibly unwilling to ever forget everything she had said just then.

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><p><strong>Remember to review! I should hopefully have another chapter up within the week, but school's been so hectic lately that I'm not sure if I'll be able to. I will, however, attempt to get up a new chapter as soon as humanly possible.<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**Not much action in this one, and I'm sorry for all of you who really want that. My cold has come back with a renewed and unwelcome vigor and even _thinking _about writing action-y scenes makes me tired. I'm also currently under the influence of all my cold medications, so sorry about any potential side-effects that those might have on my writing abilities.**

**Without further ado, I give you the next chapter!**

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><p>As Sherlock and Ellie were preparing to leave Monica Walters' flat, Lestrade approached them somewhat apprehensively. From the way he was awkwardly glancing between the two of them, Sherlock was certain that the DI was about to suggest protective custody for Ellie. This meant that her contact with the outside world would be severely limited, including any and all interaction with a certain consulting detective. Sherlock really didn't want that. The mere thought of his partner being shipped off to some secure location made him a bit uneasy.<p>

Lestrade cleared his throat tensely and opened his mouth to speak. Sherlock, having just realized how much he did _not _want to be having that conversation, grabbed Ellie's hand and pulled her off to the side before the other man even got a word out.

"Can't chat now, Lestrade," he called over his shoulder at the perplexed and slightly offended detective inspector. "Ellie and I have something to discuss."

"_Sherlock_." Lestrade spoke this in such an exasperated manner that the name alone was enough to convey his complaint. "This is really very important."

Anderson popped his head into the room, preparing his snide comment. "I don't know why you keep him around," he said rudely to the detective inspector. "It's not like he ever listens to you."

Sherlock, who was not quite out of earshot just yet, continued to tug Ellie's hand and drag her farther away from the bustle of the police at the crime scene. "Lestrade, I'm sure whatever you have to say can be discussed later," he said. "Oh, and, Anderson," he added, "do shut up. No one here gives a damn about your opinion, so stop wasting your breath and just keep it to yourself."

Ellie, for reasons that were beyond her own comprehension, was pleased and warmed by Sherlock's curt rebuttal. It seemed so _normal_. There was a crazed psychopathic monster out to get her, but regardless of all the terror that thrummed through the air in a constant buzz of impending doom, Sherlock was still Sherlock. He was still brilliant, exciting, unique, and utterly intolerant of Anderson. He was solid and firm, and that was exactly what Ellie needed at the moment—something to hang on to, something to support her, something that wouldn't budge. He may not have been the knight-in-shining-armor fantasy she'd had as a young girl, but he would have her back on this. He would give this case his all, just as he did with every other case that came to him, and he would remain steadily consistent throughout the whole ordeal. For some reason, that idea was incredibly appealing.

As Sherlock turned to face Ellie, he noted that she was staring at him with fond amusement. A faint smile was playing at her lips and her eyes were bright despite the circumstances. He felt…_good_ seeing her look like that and knowing that he was the cause. For a moment, he fought the urge to return the smile, but he quickly reminded himself of the matter at hand. He needed to convince her to stay with him and ignore the offers of police protection.

"Ellie, Lestrade was just about to suggest that you go into protective custody," Sherlock explained, desperately trying to keep his tone casual and disinterested. "I think it would be wisest if you just remained at Baker Street until the threat is…_eliminated_. I assure you that you'll be just as safe with me as you would be with those armed buffoons the Yard would have watching over you."

Ellie furrowed her brow. "Okay, but why?" She was confused, and rightly so. Hadn't Sherlock encouraged Natalie Calhoun to _accept _the protective custody? Shouldn't he be trying to get his flat-mate to take the same precaution?

Sherlock struggled to find an acceptable reason for her to stay. _Because I need to keep you close_, _because I can't risk losing you like that, _and _I don't trust the Yarders to protect you as vigorously as I will_ didn't seem like valid responses. Though they were all true, these statements were far too emotionally-based for Sherlock to admit them aloud.

"I just…" He cleared his throat awkwardly and averted his gaze. "I would feel more comfortable having you in sight, where I know that you will receive constant and dedicated protection."

Sherlock felt that this, too, was a pretty flimsy reason, and he was almost certain that she would not risk her safety by staying just to make him feel _more comfortable_. He couldn't blame her, really, but he just needed her to understand where he was coming from on this.

And maybe she did understand, or maybe she just felt the similar need to remain at home for the ordeal. For whatever reason, she replied, "Of course." She paused and thought about asking him if he was sure about this. She soon decided that he was Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes was always sure about everything, so she didn't press the issue.

Sherlock was thrown a bit off balance by her willingness to decline the Yard's offer. He was pleased, obviously, but he hadn't expected this argument to last for so brief a time.

"Alright then," he mumbled.

He was once again struck with the realization of how wonderful Ellie was. There were many aspects in which he pitied the rest of the population. For one, he was far more intelligent than any of the moronic simpletons that made up the general public. His feeling of superiority had recently increased with his decision to befriend Ellie. She had proven countless times that she understood him—she really, truly _got _what he meant. He imagined that it was incredibly rare for connections like that to be formed, for two people to have such a common ground of understanding upon which to base their relationship.

Sherlock knew that this basis of understanding couldn't have been formed with just anyone. Ellie must truly be exceptional for her to be that compatible with a not-quite-sociopathic genius.

~oOo~

Sherlock called John later that evening while Ellie was in the shower.

"Sherlock," the doctor greeted in a weary tone. "You really need to stop calling. I have a panic attack every time the phone rings and I see your name pop up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John was certain that he could _hear _that being done. "Please, John, don't be ridiculous. It's incredibly unlikely that you have an actual anxiety attack every time I ring. Don't be so overdramatic."

John sighed. "What's this about then?"

Sherlock briefly filled him in with the events that had transpired at the crime scene. For an odd and unfounded reason, he felt the urge to share not only the relevant bits of information but also those that were completely useless to his main topic. Rather than fight this compulsion to tell all, Sherlock also managed to give a short account of how Ellie had defended him to Donovan. He knew that this had absolutely no bearing whatsoever on what he had called John to discuss, but it felt _good _to tell his friend all that Ellie had said.

John grinned. "Well, it sounds like you really like her," he said after Sherlock had finished speaking. "And you like that she likes you." He chuckled a bit. "You really do care about her, don't you?"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Of course I do. Why does everyone seem to find that so hard to believe?" He abruptly jumped up from his previous seat on the sofa and began to pace in short, curt strides. "Anyway, that's beside the point. What I really needed to say was that Ellie refused police custody."

"Why would she do that? Sherlock, you've got to convince her to take it."

"No." There was a small pause in which he attempted to formulate an appropriate response. "I asked her to stay at Baker Street."

"Why the hell would you suggest that? Do you realize how dangerous the Terror is? Police custody could be the only way to keep her alive until the end of the week."

Sherlock's gut churned uneasily upon hearing those words. He wasn't even going to entertain the thought of something bad happening to her.

"I need her to stay close," he explained to John. "If I trust the Yard to protect her, I can't guarantee that they'll do all they can to keep her safe. If she stays here, I can guarantee without the shadow of a doubt that everything will be done to keep her safe, because I'll be the one doing the protecting, and I know that I will never let that bastard get to her."

"Oh," John said lamely. His previous comments about Sherlock "liking" Ellie seemed a bit juvenile now in light of this stronger, deeper emotion that was governing his actions.

"Yes, and that's where I need you, John. I obviously have to continue working on the case, which means I'll need to make several trips out of the flat. I don't feel comfortable taking Ellie with me, but it'd be even worse to leave her alone."

"So you need me to babysit your girlfriend while you're out chasing the bad guy?" John said. It was almost comical witnessing Sherlock care about someone like this.

Sherlock pondered the statement for a moment. "I suppose, if you want to look at it that way. I've already got your gun here, and I'll leave it in the flat when I go out just in case. I'm trusting that you'll do your absolute best to make sure the Terror doesn't get to Ellie."

John understood the gravity of that responsibility, and he quickly and solemnly swore to not let his guard down.

The two talked it over and decided that Sherlock would remain at Baker Street for as long as he could, but should the case lead him outside of the flat, he would text John and the doctor would take over watching Ellie. She would surely be annoyed with being "babysat," as John so aptly put it, but irritation was a small price to pay for safety.

~oOo~

That night, Ellie was draped across her bed, unable to sleep. Her eyes were glued to the ceiling and her mind was racing. She was nervous, frightened, ill at ease. Sure, it wasn't as if she were actually within the Terror's grasp yet, but the impending feeling of dread, the awful waiting before his strike, was all but crippling.

Her phone chirped from its spot on the bedside table. She picked it up and read the text she had received, curious to know who would be messaging her at that obscene hour. A new wave of panic crashed over her as she read and reread the message.

_Hush now and sleep, Ellie dear.  
>Forget all your worries and your fear.<br>At least for tonight, you will be safe,  
>But tomorrow, as always, dawns a new day.<br>Sherlock can't save you anymore  
>From the horrors I have in store.<br>But forget that for now, and rest.  
>Starting tomorrow, be at your best.<br>You don't know where, when, how, who,  
>But soon, my dear, I'm coming for you.<em>

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><p><strong>Remember to review!<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

**To be honest, I'm a bit worried about this chapter. I haven't been at the top of my game really from a writing stand point as of late, mostly due to the insane amount of schoolwork I've been assigned. Oh well, I gave it a shot. Please let me know what you think of this chapter!**

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><p>It had been five uneventful days since Ellie had been singled out by the Terror. The psychotic killer hadn't made any further attempt to contact her, for which Sherlock was intensely grateful. The consulting detective could tell that being marked and selected by the unknown horror had really taken a toll on Ellie. Though she would never admit it, it was clear that she was at least a little bit frightened by all of this.<p>

During that time, Sherlock had essentially quarantined Ellie within the flat. He was honestly worried that something might happen to her if she ventured outside. Consequently, on the rare occasions that she did go out, he was always there to accompany her. Ellie was handling all of this smothering concern remarkably well. In fact, she almost enjoyed that aspect of it. It was quite endearing to see the observable lengths to which Sherlock was willing to go to keep her safe. The mere thought of his need to protect her was enough to bring a slight smile to her face.

On the fifth morning after the Terror's text had been received, Sherlock came out of his room to find that Ellie had made him a cup of tea.

"G'morning," she mumbled sleepily as she pressed the mug into his hand.

He studied the bags under her eyes. "Still not sleeping well?"

"I'm sleeping fine. I'm fine," she said, though Sherlock immediately recognized the lie, and she collapsed onto the couch, stretching out so that she was draped completely across it. Sherlock gently lifted her legs so that he could sit down, immediately allowing the limbs to drop onto his lap. He recalled when their roles had been reversed all that time ago—when his legs had been invading her space as he thought—and sipped his tea quietly.

Neither spoke, and with the television remaining off, there was absolutely no sound in the flat, save for the slurping of tea.

_I like that we can just be silent like this without anything feeling uncomfortable, _Sherlock mused. That realization was just one of the many that he'd been having with increasing frequency over the past few days. They were all mundane, trivial matters, but he was beginning to notice just how much he appreciated certain aspects of life with Ellie.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs broke through the previous quiet. Judging by the lightness of the step and the pattern of the tread, Sherlock was able to conclude that it was their landlady who was coming up to visit them.

He observed a subtle look of panic in Ellie's eyes, as if she assumed that the Terror would just walk into the flat and get her. "Don't worry," he told her, resting a comforting hand on her ankle. "It's just Mrs. Hudson. Based off the slight shuffling in her steps, I'd say she's carrying some sort of heavy package. Probably some of the new lab equipment I ordered."

Sure enough, the landlady shoved the door open and dropped a medium-sized cardboard box on the kitchen table. "My word," she grumbled. "That's far too heavy for a woman of my age to be handling alone. Next time you get a package, dear, I'm going to make you bring it up yourself." She said a brief good morning to them both and then scurried out of the flat.

"That's incredible," Ellie commented. She'd seen evidence of Sherlock's incredible deductions time and time again, but simple things such as predicting who was ascending the stairs and what they were carrying would always amaze her. "I don't think I'll ever get used to you doing stuff like that. It's remarkable."

Sherlock brightened a bit under the praise. "It was elementary," he replied, because to him, it truly was that simple.

Another bout of silence descended upon them, and neither was willing to break it. Sherlock soon finished his tea and began to mull over the facts of the case. He had desperately attempted to gather CCTV footage of the Terror from either the Underground or the shop where Monica Walters had stolen Ellie's honey. There was enough evidence to show that the killer had indeed been in both of those locations, but when Sherlock reviewed the videos, he found that the psychopath had carefully hidden his face. The consulting detective had only been able to confirm that the Terror fit the height and build that he had already deduced, and he had also managed to catch a glimpse of the killer's calloused hands which strongly supported the theory that the Terror worked as some sort of janitor. Other than those small bits of information, Sherlock had absolutely nothing to go on.

He rubbed his hands through his hair. He should have been able to call together his logical faculties and solve this case by now, but with the killer being the cunning sociopath he was and with Sherlock's own emotional investment in the case, logic and reason were getting rather muddled. Concern and fear on behalf of someone else seemed to be dominating his mind, and that would certainly hinder the progress of the case. That was why he typically tried not to care so much, but it was far too late to attempt to remain detached when Ellie was the next intended victim.

Ellie swung her legs off of Sherlock's lap and stood up. She was curious to know what kind of lab equipment Sherlock had ordered so she walked over toward the box that Mrs. Hudson had left on the kitchen table.

The consulting detective watched her make her way toward the package, staring after her for awhile before he noticed what he was doing. He cleared his throat and snapped his head away, and he soon turned directed his attention at the stack of papers on the coffee table, which he now decided to straighten up, if only to give him something to do.

Ellie cut open the box and peeked inside.

A brief, chilling shriek caught Sherlock's attention. He spun around to face Ellie, who had gone extremely pale and seemed unable to look away from that mysterious package. Her features were far beyond distressed, and there was an almost childlike fear in her eyes that made it impossible for Sherlock not to rush to her side. As soon as he got nearer to her, she blindly reached out to him, still staring at the contents of the box with that horror in her face. She grabbed onto his arm and clung to him desperately.

Sherlock glanced down at the package that they had received. The cardboard box was lined with some sort of plastic wrap, and inside was a scarecrow's head. On closer examination, he determined that it wasn't a scarecrow's head, but rather it was a scarecrow's mask covering a severed human head. The blood stained the bottom of the plastic wrap, and the beady black eyes of the mask glared up menacingly.

Sherlock knew that this was what had frightened Ellie. He recalled an instance several weeks earlier in which she had asked him to turn off some movie on the telly because there were evil scarecrows in it. After some further investigating, he discovered that scarecrows, particularly ones with beady black eyes, were her greatest fear. While many people seemed to be irrationally afraid of clowns, Ellie was terrified of scarecrows. It had something to do with a traumatizing incident from her childhood, and the horror clearly carried over into her adult years.

"Sherlock," she said in a harsh whisper. "Sherlock, what is that?" Her voice cracked. "What's going on?"

"I believe that's the killer's latest move," he replied almost automatically, eyeing the box with some interest.

He snapped out of this analytical mode immediately and switched to attempting to comfort his distressed friend. He pulled a note out of the box—the ends of the paper were stained with blood from the severed head—and he then closed it up to prevent that eerie mask from frightening Ellie further. He then extracted his arm from hers and put it around her, pulling her in closer as he'd seen men do in shows and films. She leaned into the embrace, still eyeing the package warily. However, she soon seemed to get over the initial panic and became much more collected, though she kept a tight grip on Sherlock to ensure that he didn't move from this comforting and slightly awkward hug. He found that he didn't mind her holding onto him, and he was much less uncomfortable with this sort of physical contact than usual. Whereas he typically avoided all prolonged touching of any kind, this actually wasn't all that bad.

Sherlock remembered the note he had in his hand and looked down at it.

_I hope you've enjoyed my surprise.  
>I hope you've got tears in your eyes.<br>I hope you fear the mention of my name.  
>I hope you know it'll never be the same.<br>I hope you know that I'm watching you.  
>I hope you know your time's up soon.<br>You should panic and you should fear,  
>Because I will get you, Ellie, dear.<em>

Sherlock stared at the note and reread it once more before shoving it into his pocket. Ellie hadn't gotten a glimpse of it, and he would try to keep it that way for awhile. She didn't need any more fear at the moment. Sherlock repeated the verse in his head and his feeling of trepidation continued to grow. He held Ellie tighter and pressed his cheek to her hair. He wanted this to all be over. He wanted the game to stop. But most of all, he wanted Ellie to be safe again. He was so incredibly frightened for her, worried about her, concerned about her. He would not let her go.

~oOo~

Lestrade and his goons swarmed the flat, and Sherlock was even shorter than usual with them. He continually snapped at the unfortunate Yarders who were merely attempting to do their jobs. In his mind though, he was completely justified in his increased tetchiness: there was a killer terrifying his Ellie and the Yard was acting as _utterly_ _incompetent_ as usual.

Ellie had retreated to her room. She was still a bit shaken up by what had happened, but she was now overcome with something else—embarrassment. Surely Sherlock was judging her based on her intense irrational fear. He probably had no room in his hard-drive for such things, and he was most likely offended by this weakness in his partner. She was slightly ashamed for him to have seen her when she was so frightened by something that should have been nothing more than a bit alarming. Of course, she could not or would not change her irrational fears simply because Sherlock did not approve of them, but it was humiliating for them to come out nonetheless.

However, she could not have been farther off the mark. Sherlock wasn't even thinking about Ellie's unfounded horror. Instead, he was concerned that this little event would be the one that finally pushed her away. The Terror truly was frightening her, and it was only a matter of time before she was scared away completely. She would decide that living with Sherlock, being constantly placed in this kind of situation, was far too risky to continue. She would move out and forget all about the mad consulting detective with whom she had once shared a flat. It had happened countless times to Sherlock before, but he was far more reluctant to let Ellie go than he had been with any of his previous flat-mates.

He pushed all of these sentimental thoughts out of his head, and he focused on finding the bastard who was threatening Ellie. The killer had made two grave mistakes: targeting Sherlock's friend and scaring her away. Not only would Sherlock get revenge on the Terror for terrifying a good person like Ellie, but he would also get back at the murderer for causing her eventual departure from the flat. _Perhaps_, he thought wistfully, _if I catch the Terror before anything really bad happens, she'll reconsider moving out_.

Again Sherlock forced himself to forget these thoughts. He tried to remain aloof and disconnected from the case before his actions became governed by emotion rather than logic.

~oOo~

Later that evening, Sherlock sat on the sofa with Ellie's laptop in his lap. He was searching random things on Google and was updating his website, both of which were menial tasks meant to detract from his feeling of worry. It wasn't working out too well.

After Lestrade and his team had left, Sherlock had gone up to Ellie's room with another cup of tea. He had asked her if she was alright, and she had said she was fine, and she took the tea, and he left. And he hadn't seen her since. She clearly was _not _fine. Everything was not fine, and Sherlock didn't know how to fix it all.

At that moment, he heard Ellie's bedroom door open. Sure enough, a few seconds later, she came downstairs into the living room.

"Hi," she mumbled awkwardly.

Sherlock nodded in response. He didn't know what to do, so he stood up and began to pace. "How are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she replied, offering a brief smile.

When someone smiles genuinely, they cannot control the crinkling around their eyes that the grin causes. There was no crinkling around Ellie's eyes, which meant that the smile clearly _wasn't_ genuine.

"You're lying," he shot back. "You're _not fine_."

Ellie bit her lip and looked at him wearily. After a moment, she sighed and walked over to him. "No, you're right. I'm not fine. Can we…can we talk for a little bit?"

Her hesitancy, fake smile, and slight difficulty when asking that simple question all served to prove that she was anticipating an awkward or uncomfortable conversation. Sherlock briefly wondered if this would be when she would announce her decision to move out.

"Sure," he muttered, planting himself back on the couch.

Ellie sat beside him, but she didn't say anything for awhile. It seemed as though she were picking her words with extreme care, but when she finally did speak, all she said was, "I'm scared." Her voice was quiet and subdued, and she didn't look him in the eye.

_She's embarrassed_, he realized. But why? Why would being scared possibly make her feel ashamed?

"I know," he replied. "I'm sorry." He tentatively reached out and took her hand in his. She had done this before with him, and he was hoping that hand-holding would have the same effects on her. He felt awkward, and he wasn't sure if he was doing it right, but she squeezed his hand and he figured he must be doing a decent job.

"Can you just…I mean, I know that you're probably above such trivial things as fear…but—"

"No," Sherlock said, cutting her off. He now understood that she was embarrassed because she assumed that he would look down on her fright. She thought he was above such things and incorrectly believed that he would not approve of having a partner who was scared. "I…I'm not _quite _immune to that sort of thing."

She finally looked up at him.

"I'm not easily frightened," he told her, "but me getting…nervous and edgy is not unheard of." His mind traveled to the Baskerville case. Though he would never truly admit it, he had been faced with very real terror during that investigation, especially after the drug had taken hold of his brain. Sherlock was no stranger to fear, and while it did not factor into many of his cases, there were times when he was confronted with that sort of panic. "Yes, it's happened before. I know what you're going through, and I'm very sorry."

Ellie was slightly relieved. This whole time she'd assumed that Sherlock had been silently mocking her for her reaction to receiving the Terror's newest threat. It was nice to know that she had been mistaken on that front. "Right…well…you don't have to keep apologizing for this. It's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" he asked quickly, before his mind had time to veto the question. Ellie stared at him with her brows furrowed slightly. "Isn't it my fault? I'm the one who made you come live here, and I'm the one who brought you in on this case, and that's the reason that you're being targeted right now. I fail to see how this _isn't _my fault."

The crease between her eyebrows deepened as she continued to gaze at him in confusion. "Sherlock, this is definitely _not _your fault. You didn't _make _me live here; I chose to. You asked me for help on the case, and I agreed to it. It's not like you dangled me around in front of the killer's face and begged him to go after me."

"But if it wasn't for your relationship with me, the Terror never would have focused on you." Sherlock didn't know why he was pointing out all of this. He didn't _want_ Ellie to blame him for this, but suddenly, he felt that he _was_ to blame. He was certain at that moment that it was all his fault, and he felt…_guilty_. He felt guilty and he was going unpunished for putting her into that situation. If she left, though Sherlock desperately did not want that to happen, he knew that he would probably deserve all the pain that her move would cause.

He ran a hand through his hair. How was it possible for him to be so conflicted on this issue? _I remember when emotions were easy for me, simply because I didn't have any_, he mused. _Those were the days…_

"So what you're saying," Ellie commented, "is that in order for me to stay safe, I have to end our relationship." She shook her head. "Not going to happen."

"But—"

"Sherlock," she cut him off. She chuckled lightly. "Geez, it seems like you _want _me to blame you."

Sherlock made a face, because he kind of did want her to, just so he would feel like he was receiving some sort of reprimand for putting her in danger like this.

"Look," she continued. "I was a medical examiner back in the States. It's not like I was keeping away from murder and dangerous situations. Sure, I'm more in the middle of the investigation now, and sure, there might be more of a risk working with you, but I _chose _this—all of it—when I was completely conscious of all the possible repercussions."

He sighed. "But isn't it illogical for you to stay here when the possibility that something bad will happen increases exponentially every passing second? Shouldn't you be at least a little bit concerned about your safety?"

Ellie smiled slightly and scooted closer to him. "What's life without a little risk?"

She had spoken those same words after Donovan had warned her away all that time ago, and even though the risk was getting increasingly more dangerous, she was still there. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

"Besides," she added, "I really don't _want _to move out. I mean, I understand it would be safer, but I really like you, and I really like living here, and I honestly can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."

"There's nowhere you would rather be than with a heartless consulting detective whose mere presence makes things hazardous?" Sherlock asked dryly.

Ellie's grin grew, even though she knew that he was being sarcastic. "First of all, you're not heartless—not even close. And secondly, that's absolutely right. I have fun here, even if you are completely impossible and infuriating. You're also brilliant and clever and funny in your own way. You're nice when you think no one's paying attention, and you're the most magnificent, most remarkable, and greatest man I've ever known. Why would I ever want to go anywhere else when I've got a friend like you here?"

And then Sherlock was smiling, and it was the sort of smile that he couldn't wipe off his face, just like when he'd heard Ellie defending him to Donovan at Walters' flat. And he felt warm, too, and happy. How was it possible that one woman could change him from being the slightly-thawed-out sociopath he was to being a sunny, bright-eyed, grinning schoolboy with only a few words?

He hugged her then, because physical contact seemed necessary with this kind of emotional intimacy, and as he had already discovered earlier that day, hugging Ellie was nothing short of lovely. She clung onto him and felt safer than she had in awhile, because at that moment, it felt as though Sherlock was completely prejudiced in her favor, and nothing could bring them down right then. Sherlock was still smiling, and Ellie was still smiling, and for that one moment, in the midst of all the chaos and terror around them, the two were happy and warm and safe.

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><p><strong>Remember to review! As I said earlier, I was a bit unsure of this one, so please let me know what you thought of it.<strong>


	15. Chapter 15

**This chapter is going to be much shorter than many of the more recent ones because I've allowed myself only a short break from studying to write this. Also, it's really not action-based, but it's really fluffy and light-hearted, so enjoy the happiness while it lasts.**

**Enough of that: allons-y!**

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><p>Two more days passed without consequence. The severed head that had been dressed as a scarecrow had been identified as that of Miles Boson, who had been one of the officers stationed outside Natalie Calhoun's flat. The Terror had most likely wanted to show that no one, not even those within the Yard, was safe from his reign of horror.<p>

Unfortunately, as per usual, no new information could be gleaned from the Terror's latest excursion. He, as always, did not leave any obvious traces of evidence behind, and even Sherlock was beginning to feel the oppressive weight of hopelessness closing in.

Sherlock flung himself onto the couch one morning nearly forty-eight hours since the scarecrow package had been received. His deep blue dressing gown fluttered around him in an almost comical way that was completely antithetical to how he was feeling. As Ellie walked into the room, he huffed in annoyance loud enough for her to hear. When she didn't immediately ask him what was wrong, he let out an exasperated sigh and turned himself around so that he was facing the back of the sofa.

Ellie smiled down at him fondly. He truly did turn into a petulant child when things didn't go his way. "What's up, Sherlock?" she asked, sitting in one of the armchairs.

He lifted his head and glared at her. "You know perfectly well 'what's up.' I'm _stuck. _Every scrap of evidence is completely useless, and there's no way to get around that. I don't know what to do, because there's nothing I _can _do."

"You'll figure out something," she replied soothingly.

He leapt up from the couch and began to pace frantically. "But I won't—I can't. I've gone over this case countless times, and I can't find _anything_! I don't even know how he chooses his victims."

"Well, he saw me and Monica Walters in the shop and on the Tube. You know that for sure."

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face. "Yes, exactly, and that's where the problem lies, because Natalie Calhoun had a car and never would have taken the Tube, _and _she had her groceries delivered. You see my dilemma? There's no way the killer could have found her the same way he found you. There's no pattern, but a pattern is exactly what I _need _to get this guy."

Ellie bit her lip. "So what you're saying is that there's no way to know exactly how he chooses his victims? It's all just random?"

"Apparently so," Sherlock muttered. "As the Terror goes about his day, he spots random young women and decides that it would be fun to slit their throats."

Ellie cringed ever so slightly. Hearing the murders talked about in that frank tone was unsettling to say the least, especially since she was supposedly going to be next. She coughed awkwardly and held a hand over her neck. "Right, well…couldn't you use that to your advantage?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, if the killer really is finding these women as he goes about his daily routine, and if you can figure out exactly how he found each victim individually, shouldn't you be able to piece together his routine? For example, if he found Calhoun at a park or something, then you know that he goes by that park every so often. And he found me and Walters at the shop, so chances are he shops there. If you figure out how he found each individual victim, you might be able to put together some sort of map of his activities. Wouldn't that be helpful?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing, his back turned toward her. When he remained silent after about a minute, Ellie started to feel rather self-conscious about her idea. She had thought it would be a helpful technique, but apparently her companion was not as impressed.

"Just forget it," she mumbled. "It was a stupid idea."

She stood up and was preparing to scurry away to avoid further embarrassment. However, before she could so much as take a step, Sherlock was right there in front of her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and had a huge grin spread across his face.

"You," he said proudly, "are absolutely brilliant!" He leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Utterly fantastic. That's just the sort of thing I needed! I can't believe I didn't think of that before."

He released her from his grasp and practically skipped over to his bedroom. His smile was still in place, and he was impressed with Ellie beyond all reason. He wanted her to _know _how intelligent she was and just how vital her suggestion was to the case.

"You're amazing," he told her, enjoying the way she blushed under the praise. "You really are. I've got to text John now and tell him to come over, and then I'll go and I'll find how the Terror came across each victim, and then we'll be so much closer to catching him." He disappeared into his room for just a moment before popping his head back out and adding, "You truly are incredible." With that, he shut his door and hurriedly changed out of his nightclothes.

Ellie stood there for quite some time, just taking in all that had happened. She had never felt so appreciated in Sherlock's presence, and it was…_nice_. A stupid grin slowly spread across her face, and she reached up a hand to gently touch her cheek. He had kissed her, and it really hadn't been anything but a friendly and grateful peck on the cheek, but it pleased her beyond reason. It really shouldn't have made her feel special to receive that show of gratitude. After all, he gave kisses like that to Mrs. Hudson all the time, but Ellie, for whatever reason, couldn't accept the fact that it had been nothing special. That was probably her first indication that her feelings toward Sherlock had shifted into something more than platonic.

In his room, Sherlock couldn't seem to stop smiling. That had been happening with alarming frequency over the past several weeks, and he knew that Ellie was the cause. He had never grinned this thoroughly in his life, and it was actually rather pleasant. He was astounded with her brilliance, and he could not get over the fact that she had not only stimulated his genius but provided her own intelligent and vital input.

_What an amazing woman_, he thought happily. _I don't know what I'd do without her_.

* * *

><p><strong>Remember to review!<strong>


	16. Chapter 16

John arrived at Baker Street a few short minutes after receiving Sherlock's text: _Come over at once. Urgent. SH_

The wording, of course, made John anxious and concerned. Sherlock was never very skilled at conveying emotion, and the fact that textual communication also failed on this front made that message even more ambiguous. It could be absolutely nothing of consequence, but John—always inclined to believe the worst—was imagining a number of horrible scenarios all throughout the cab ride to 221 B.

He had gotten himself so worked up by the time he arrived that, upon entering the flat, the sight of a chuffed Sherlock and a perfectly safe Ellie was slightly startling.

"Good, John, you're here," Sherlock greeted with a grin. He flicked his gaze toward the doctor for a brief moment before glancing back at Ellie. He seemed to be staring at her quite a bit, and she seemed to be enjoying it.

"Hello, John," she said to him.

"Erm, hi," he replied, still struggling to grasp what was going on. "Right, well, what was so urgent then, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective managed to force his gaze back onto John as he said, "Ellie came up with the most brilliant idea." His eyes landed back on her, and he continued to uphold that hint of a smile. Sherlock proceeded to explain exactly what Ellie's brilliant idea was and how it would help identify the killer. All the while, he couldn't resist the urge to throw in little compliments directed toward his partner.

John watched the way Sherlock kept looking at her and the way she would blush and smile lightly. It was actually quite…_adorable_. He never thought he would use that word in conjunction with Sherlock Holmes, but he could not deny that seeing the self-proclaimed sociopath interact with Ellie was, in fact, adorable.

As Sherlock finished recounting precisely how he would build off of Ellie's suggestion, he glanced over and found that John was staring between the two of them with an amused grin playing at his lips. He almost asked what the doctor was so pleased about, but he decided that it would be better not to. He really needed to get going, and he didn't have time to listen to John explain what he found so charming.

"Right then," Sherlock announced after a moment. "I'd best be off. Ellie, I'll see you later." As his gaze fell on her once more, he had the strangest impulse to drop another peck on her cheek before he left. He shook his head to rid himself of this idea. _We're flat-mates_, he told himself. _Not an old married couple._ He cleared his throat awkwardly in an attempt to interrupt these thoughts. "Right, John, I left the gun in the desk drawer."

"Let's hope I won't need it," John responded. He walked with Sherlock to the door. "Don't worry," he added in a hushed tone. "I'll guard her with my life."

~oOo~

Sherlock had been gone for several hours. During his absence, Ellie and John had chatted amiably about life with that impossible man. At one point, John had mentioned how well Sherlock and Ellie seemed to be getting on, adding a suggestive smirk, and she felt her cheeks flush at the implication.

At the moment, she was in the taking a shower while John sat in his old armchair watching crap telly. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, but he kept his gun on the coffee table just in case.

Ellie stepped out of the shower and hurriedly dressed. She stood in front of the mirror and smiled. Despite all the fear that she had been living with for the past week, she was fairly content with the way things were at the present.

_I should call Sherlock to see how he's doing_, she mused.

She pulled out her mobile, prepared to dial his number, when she realized that she had one unread text. She had expected it to be a curt message from Sherlock giving her a brief overview of his escapades, or perhaps even a few words from Sara to check up on her. What she had most certainly _not _expected was a few lines of poetry that would send chills down her spine. Unfortunately, that's exactly what she got:

_You should worry and you should fear.  
>Your time is up and now I'm here.<em>

_Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.  
>I'm already here, already inside.<em>

_Prepare for your fate, Ellie dear.  
>You must know your life ends here.<em>

Elle was frozen in utter horror as she stared down at the lines of text. Primal panic pounded through her veins, gripping her heart in its spidery grasp. A rush of adrenalin suddenly jolted through her system. _John,_ she thought. _John is still out there. _She wrenched open the door and scrambled out into the living room. John was still sitting in his armchair, watching one of those mindless daytime programs he was so fond of.

"John," she choked out, practically shaking. The fact that he seemed so normal despite the situation was almost astounding.

He sprung up from his seat. "What's wrong?"

Before she ever got a chance to answer, the front door flew open with a _bang_. A figure stood in the doorway. His twisted grin and manic eyes made it impossible to mistake who he was.

"Ah, Ellie, we meet at last," he said politely. His voice was too sweet, and it made her feel sick.

She still had her phone in her hand, and she subtly dialed the number she had long since memorized.

John's instincts took hold at that moment, and he made a move toward his gun.

A shot rang out, and in the chilling air it mingled with Ellie's terrified scream.

~oOo~

Sherlock looked down at his buzzing mobile. It was rare for people to call him, and it was even rarer for him to answer these calls. But, upon glancing at the caller ID, he noticed that it was Ellie phoning him, and he decided that he wasn't opposed to talking with her.

"Hello," he greeted with an unusual cheerfulness in his tone. She seemed to have that effect on him.

The answering noise crushed whatever brightness he had possessed. A gunshot echoed over the line, immediately followed by a heart-breaking scream. She was terrified, and someone had been shot, and all he could hear for several minutes was that combination of sound that made him feel as if he had been repeatedly punched in the stomach. He needed to save her. She was in danger—_his Ellie_—and he had to get to her.

His next movements were mechanical, and he somehow managed to hail a cab despite the scream still sounding in his ears. In record time, he made it back to Baker Street, and he ran inside without paying the cabbie.

The door had been kicked open, and when he climbed those seventeen steps to his flat, a panic so strong that it was almost painful took hold of him. Fear squeezed his heart until breathing became a terrible struggle, but he had to save Ellie. It couldn't be too late…

John was lying on the floor in a shallow pool of blood. He was still moving around slightly and groaning in agony, which indicated that he was probably okay. A brief secondary examination revealed that the bullet had penetrated his lower abdomen, and he would most likely make a full recovery.

"Where's Ellie?" he asked in a constricted voice, though he was aware that he would never receive an answer. He _felt _so much, and it hurt._ No, no, no, no, no. Please, no. No, no, no, no…_

She was gone, and he knew it. She had been taken, and all Sherlock could hear were her horrified and chilling screams, echoing in the nothingness that had momentarily taken over his mind.


	17. Chapter 17

**It's very late, and I'm very tired, and I apologize if this chapter isn't up to the usual standard. Review and let me know what you thought!**

* * *

><p>Somehow, through the haze of chaos that had descended upon his world, Sherlock managed to dial 999. Shortly thereafter, an ambulance arrived, as did Lestrade. Sherlock could barely recall what happened next, but he was fairly certain that he had snapped at several of the paramedics and threatened them with unspeakable horrors should they fail to save John. When he was satisfied that the doctors would not jeopardize his friend's life, Sherlock stumbled over toward the couch.<p>

Intense fear, screaming concern, and aching sorrow attempted to claw out of his chest. It was too much…far, far too much. He couldn't handle all of that heavy emotion and seemed to be experiencing some kind of sensory overload.

Lestrade sat down beside him. He wasn't sure how to comfort a man like Sherlock Holmes in this kind of situation. "What happened?" he finally asked.

"He—" Sherlock's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his tone was empty. "He got her. The Terror got to Ellie."

"We'll get her back," Lestrade replied somewhat awkwardly.

Sherlock suddenly leapt up from the sofa and began to pace. "Of course we will." He was silent for a moment before adding, "I'm going to need you to get your people to look up the members of the janitorial staff at a local business."

The DI pulled out his phone and prepared to dial Donovan's number. "Why? How will that help us?"

"Just do it," Sherlock responded curtly. Still, the statement lacked much of his usual biting superiority.

Lestrade noted his hollow tone with great concern. Sherlock was still pacing, but the movement wasn't nearly as manic and excited as it normally was. Indeed, it seemed as if the consulting detective was just going through the motions. He appeared to be running on autopilot, and that worried Lestrade immensely.

What the detective inspector did not understand was the sheer necessity of this aloofness. Sherlock _needed_ to be disconnected from what was going on, because without the detachment he was displaying, he would have been forced to experience with shocking clarity each of the sharp, stabbing emotions that had briefly overtaken him earlier. He couldn't succumb to these feelings without losing some of his rational thought in the process, and in order to give Ellie a better chance of survival, he desperately needed to be in control of his mind.

Lestrade did, however, understand that their best chances of keeping this girl alive stemmed from him adhering to Sherlock's instructions. "What business am I supposed to be looking into?" the DI finally asked.

Sherlock was grateful for Lestrade's cooperation as he spouted off the name of the company. Within a few minutes, Donovan had sent a list of the names and addresses of each of the individuals on the janitorial staff to Lestrade's mobile. Sherlock snatched the phone and frantically scrolled through this data until he exhaled a relieved, "Huh!"

"What is it?" Lestrade inquired. "What've you found?"

"Anthony Perkins."

"Who's Anthony Perkins?"

"I believe you know him as the London Terror," Sherlock replied, handing back the DI's mobile.

Lestrade stared back at him dumbly. "How could you have suddenly gone from knowing absolutely nothing about this guy to giving me his name?"

"We knew _almost _nothing about him, which is entirely more than absolutely nothing." Sherlock's voice was still empty, and hearing him speak in that tone made Lestrade feel uncomfortable. "I was able to piece together his routine based on the locations at which he found his victims. I know where he shops, what coffeehouse he goes to, what parks he strolls through, and which Tube stations he gets on at. But his third victim, Anna van Houten, didn't quite fit into the pattern I'd created. She was a workaholic, unlikeable according to those who knew her, bitter, and she generally kept to herself. She never went outside unless absolutely necessary, and she spent most of her time completely alone or at her office. This means that the killer either lived next door to her or he worked in her building. She lived in a flat in a busy part of town, and it's unlikely that the Terror would set up house in a place like that. So, that leaves her work. We know he's a janitor based off the calluses on his hands, and the only address on that list of yours that would be plausible considering the routine I've deduced belongs to Anthony Perkins."

Sherlock pulled out his own mobile and searched something on it, now choosing to ignore Lestrade completely.

The detective inspector cleared his throat, but Sherlock didn't look up from his phone. "Well then," Lestrade said impatiently, "what are we waiting for? We've got to get down to Perkins' place."

Sherlock's eyes were still glued to the screen of his mobile. "I'll leave this part to the professionals. You and your team are more than capable of busting down his door and taking him away."

Lestrade stared at him in confusion. "Don't you want to come with?"

"No, I don't see any need to."

Lestrade shook his head and scrunched his nose in subtle disgust. He would've expected Sherlock to eagerly accept the opportunity to tag along, to save the woman he'd come to care dearly for. He had imagined that Sherlock Holmes was becoming a good man, but seeing him this disinterested in rescuing Ellie was almost sickening with its lack of humanity.

"Fine," Lestrade grumbled in reply. "Fine."

Sherlock could hear the disappointment in the other man's tone, but he refused to glance up from what he was doing. He was slightly upset at the thought of Lestrade thinking so poorly of him, but he knew that he had to pretend to let the DI do this one on his own. Without looking away from his mobile, Sherlock heard Lestrade leaving the flat. As soon as the door shut behind him, Sherlock sprang into action.

He grabbed John's discarded gun from where it had come to rest on the floor. He meticulously avoided making eye contact with the blood stain that covered a rather large portion of the ground, and without stopping to explain to anyone exactly what he was doing, he ran outside and hopped in a cab.

He knew that Anthony Perkins would not have taken Ellie back to his flat. It was ridiculous to think that a killer as intelligent as this one would have been stupid enough to terrify his victims at his own home. No, instead, Sherlock was certain that Perkins was using some sort of abandoned warehouse. He had been researching all of the empty buildings near Perkins' flat when Lestrade had left, and he had discovered a grand total of three. However, there was only one location that was suitably isolated while still maintaining proximity to where Perkins lived.

Sherlock promised the cabbie triple the usual fare if he got them to the warehouse within the next twenty minutes. The destination, in actuality, was approximately thirty minutes away, and with the traffic of London's streets, it would doubtlessly take them a good deal longer. This, combined with the Terror's significant head start, caused Sherlock to worry about not making it in time.

_I have to get to her_. _Just let me save her._ He wasn't sure who he was silently pleading to, but he hoped that begging worked.

The emotions he had been denying up to that point began to crack open his hard exterior. He needed someone to comfort him, to show him how to deal with such feelings. That had been Ellie's job…

He reached out his arm into the empty air beside him, fruitlessly searching for Ellie's hand to hold.

_This is bad. This is very, very not good, _he thought. He needed her, and he didn't think he could handle anything bad happening to her. He had to save her.

He looked down at his solitary hand, longing for that simplicity and ease with which the day had begun.

_I hope I'm not too late. I can't be too late._

~oOo~

Pain. There was a lot of pain. Her head hurt so badly, and it took her a moment to realize that she had been struck in the temple and knocked out. Ellie opened her eyes, but she couldn't see anything. The room around her was pitch-black, and she had never been more terrified in her life.

She lifted herself from where she had been lying on the floor and adrenalin began to kick in. She blindly felt around, trying to find a wall, a door, a window, anything.

Her hand soon came into contact with smooth metal. Cold, hard, unyielding metal. She followed the walls around until she had formed a mental picture of her prison. It was a shipping container, nowhere near as large as she would have hoped, and there didn't seem to be any way out. There was some sort of lumpish object stuffed into one of the corners, but with the absence of light, there was no way to identify what it was.

Ellie's fear began to rise as she realized how hopeless her situation seemed to be. There was no escape.

She kicked the sides of container frantically. "Help!" she cried, her voice cracking. "Help! Please, please, dear God, please!"

"You're awake!" a voice unexpectedly shouted. It had a sickening sing-song quality that Ellie immediately recognized. This was the Terror speaking, the man who had gotten her into this mess, the twisted psychopath who could very well end her.

It sounded as if he was just outside the container. His voice floated through the vents at the top of the metal walls, though these holes for air had evidently been covered by some dark material to prevent light from getting in.

"Get me out of here," she pleaded.

He laughed, and the sound made her stomach clench. "The fun hasn't even started yet. You know what I will do, though, is give you some light. I know how little girls are often afraid of the monsters that lurk in the dark."

There was some clanging that echoed around inside the container, and Ellie couldn't tell which direction it was coming from. After a moment, a sliver of brightness shined in, and she realized that the door was being opened and an object was being thrown in. She scrambled toward the light, but the entrance was shut just as quickly, and soon she was left in the oppressive gloom once more. She kicked and pounded her fists against the door, regardless of the fact that she could already hear the sound of the lock being put back in place.

"There now," the Terror cooed. "Look around. I've left you a torch, but be warned: sometimes it's better to not look for what's hiding in the shadows."

Ellie ignored the warning and felt around for the torch. She flicked it on, disappointed that the beam was so narrow and dim. She swept the light around her prison and recalled the mass in the corner that she had encountered earlier. As the beam fell onto the object, she could not stifle a terrified scream. She jumped back and scurried away from what she had seen.

Slumped in the opposite corner was the body of a scarecrow with beady black eyes, a chilling smile, and crimson blood staining its neckline. Somehow, impossibly, its hand was outstretched toward her, stuck in that position and ever beckoning. Ellie could not fathom how the Terror had gotten a corpse's arm to stay that way, and instead she turned the torch off, afraid of what other monsters were hidden in there.

She was scared…so scared. She curled up into a ball on the floor and felt a few tears streak down her cheeks.

"Please, God, let me live," she muttered into the horrifying darkness.

"I wouldn't count on that," that sickeningly sweet voice called back to her from just outside her tomb.


	18. Chapter 18

"No, no, _no_!" Sherlock shouted from the backseat of the cab. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Why were there suddenly so many cars? Couldn't other people tell that he needed to save Ellie's life?

"Calm down, mate," the cabbie grumbled from the front. "We'll get you there soon enough."

" 'Soon enough' isn't _soon enough_," Sherlock snapped back. "This is a life-or-death situation. I _have _to get to that warehouse."

Sherlock clung onto this increasing frustration more vigorously than he normally would have. By allowing this annoyance to take over, he found that he was less prone to bouts of other, more frightening emotions. Sticking with irritation made him feel more like himself, and he could already sense his brain's positive reaction to the limit on those other feelings. Unfortunately, this also meant that the cabbie was getting more and more fed up with his passenger.

_Making one more enemy is a small price to pay for saving Ellie, _Sherlock decided.

~oOo~

The Terror had kept Ellie locked in that container for what seemed like an impossibly long stretch of time. In actuality, it couldn't have been for more than half an hour since she'd turned off the torch, but with her fear growing exponentially with each passing second, the time dragged on.

She was so scared. She could almost feel the scarecrow in the corner, watching her with its beady eyes, reaching out toward her. Every once in awhile, she could hear something scurrying around the edges of the container. She didn't know what it was, or whether or not it would harm her, but she was frightened all the same.

When she was so afraid that it hurt, the Terror opened the door to the container and ushered her out.

He was only about six or so inches taller than her, and he wore a wicked grin that made her stomach drop. His eyes were glinting with a manic sort of pleasure, and his dark hair was slicked back unattractively.

Ellie frantically looked around her, desperate to know where she was and to find any possibility of escape. The two of them appeared to be in a warehouse, though it was much smaller than all of the warehouses Ellie had seen before. There was one door, but it was out of reach. The Terror would surely get to her first if she tried to make a run for it.

As if he could read her thoughts, he pulled a short blade out of his pocket. "Go on," he sang. "Try to escape." He reached the knife up and gently stroked her cheek with it. "I dare you."

She flinched away from the weapon. She could scarcely hear him over the sound of her own heart pounding. She could feel herself trembling ever so slightly, and the Terror looked pleased to see her shaking.

"I haven't scared you, have I?" he asked in that simpering voice. "I haven't even gotten started yet."

He drew back his hand and struck her across the face. She recoiled from the force of the blow and felt blood trickling down the side of her cheek. The bastard was wearing a ring, and it had clearly broken through her skin. Ellie scrambled backward, attempting to put as much distance between her and the psychopath as possible.

"You know, I think that when I'm done with you, I'll go back and finish off Sherlock Holmes," the Terror commented casually. "Just for fun."

He kicked Ellie's legs out from under her, and she tumbled to the ground. While she was still struggling to get up off the floor, he struck her with his foot once again, this time in the ribs. She doubled over and coughed as her breath was torn from her.

"Don't…don't hurt Sherlock," she managed to get out, still gasping for air. That last kick had hurt far too much.

She hadn't thought that she could get any more terrified than she already was, though clearly the Terror had just succeeded in making her achieve just that. Now, she did not only fear for her own life, but she was also horrified at the thought of what this killer might do to Sherlock.

"How touching," the Terror muttered in disgust. "How human. How normal. How _finite_. You must realize by now, dear Ellie, that all of your begging and pleading will not affect what I'm planning to do."

She received another kick to the ribs. This one was considerably more painful than the last, and she was starting to worry about lasting damage that it might cause. _Well, _she thought bitterly, _I won't be alive to actually experience any _lasting _damage._

Her back hit a wall, and her horror grew significantly. She was trapped in a corner, crouched down on the floor. She was injured and unable to fight back, and standing over her was the man who was going to kill her and who would then proceed to kill the person she had come to care for most.

Hot tears dripped down her face and stung the still-bleeding cut on her cheek.

The Terror hit her over the head once more. The blow in combination with the flurry of emotions within her caused Ellie to feel slightly dizzy. She tried to stand up, but whenever she moved, the area where she had been kicked screamed in pain. _That's not good,_ her mind told her. _Probably a broken rib._

"Shh, don't cry," the Terror cooed. "It'll all be over soon."

She glanced up at his twisted grin and manic eyes. That would be the last face she would ever see.

He lowered his knife and gently traced it over her neck. She was truly trembling in earnest now, and she could feel the cold metal grazing over her skin.

"Goodbye, Ellie Archer," the Terror said with something akin to glee lining his voice.

A shot rang out.

The whole moment seemed frozen in time, and the gunshot was still echoing throughout the warehouse.

It took Ellie quite some time to realize that the Terror had not had a gun, and therefore she was not the one that had been shot. Instead, she looked up to see the psychopath looming over her, a singular bullet wound straight through his forehead. Blood poured out, and his body swayed forward. She scrambled out from below him just before he hit the ground.

Ellie looked up, dazed and confused, and she saw none other than Sherlock Holmes standing by the door, holding John's gun.

They stared at each other for awhile before he lowered the gun and ran toward her. She couldn't move. She couldn't seem to think, either. All she could do was stand there, still shaking, still scared.

Sherlock came over and put his hands on her shoulders. He then touched her hair, her arms, her face, ensuring that she was fine. When his palms lightly grazed her abdomen, she flinched, her ribs smarting.

"You're going to be alright," he whispered to her, gently pulling her toward him. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to the top of her head. "Everything's going to be alright."

She curled into him and began to sob heavily. Between her crying and his protective grip on her, Ellie's ribs were in very real pain, but she couldn't seem to pull herself away.

"Everything's going to be okay," he said.

While Ellie's mind was completely blank, his was repeating a grateful mantra: _Thank goodness I've found you. Thank goodness I've found you…_


	19. Chapter 19

**Sorry this took so long to update. I've been crazy busy lately.**

**Anywho, I'd like to address something that was brought up in a review of the last chapter. It was pointed out that the storyline was somewhat cliché in that Ellie got kidnapped and Sherlock managed to rescue her in the nick of time. I understand that this isn't exactly the most original plot, but, as a 16-year-old girl who grew up on Disney movies and happy endings, that's exactly the way I wanted it to play out. Sorry if that wasn't what you were looking for, but I happen to love those somewhat cliché endings.**

**There was also the concern that Ellie wasn't nearly as badass in the last chapter as she was in chapter 3, and I promise to address that in the next installment.**

**Well, that was all I really wanted to say. I hope you enjoy this chapter, though it is _very _short compared to the usual.**

Sherlock stared at Ellie throughout the whole cab ride home, though she kept her own eyes fixed on the passing scenery through the window. They had been detained at the crime scene for several hours, enduring interrogations from Lestrade, check-ups from the paramedics, etc. Sherlock usually found such proceedings to be extremely tedious, but this time was different. He felt almost confused by it all, and he wasn't sure exactly what he was _supposed _to be feeling. All he knew was that he had the overwhelming urge to be close to Ellie, to keep her within his sight at all times.

Ellie was dealing with the situation much worse than Sherlock was. She had withdrawn into herself and, when spoken to, responded with short, distant-sounding replies. She, too, was unsure what to feel in light of all that had happened, and, rather than having to sort through her emotions, she decided to just not have any. So, for the last several hours, she had seemed completely empty.

Sherlock wasn't too worried by her apparent hollowness. In fact, one of the paramedics had informed him that, in addition to Ellie's fractured rib, she had come out of the fray with some psychological "injuries." This really just meant that she would be prone to going into shock—which was what Sherlock assumed all this emotional distance was.

This "shock" continued for awhile after the two arrived back at their flat. Ellie sat silently on the sofa while Sherlock made her some tea. When he presented her with her mug, she accepted it without a word and sipped the drink just as quietly. He sat beside her and allowed the silence to stretch on.

Minutes later, Ellie set down her cuppa and prepared to stand. Sherlock realized that she was going to withdraw into her room, but he still felt compelled to keep her within his sight. He wasn't exactly sure how to make her stay with him, but he was certain that he needed her by his side. He slowly reached out and took her hand in his, twining their fingers together. Ellie looked down at their conjoined hands and then brought her gaze up to meet his.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Would it…would it be possible for you to stay here—just for a little while longer?" When she didn't say anything right away, he added, "I mean, it would probably be best for you to…to not be alone right now…" He knew his reasoning was flimsy, and he wasn't sure that Ellie would correctly comprehend his meaning, so he held onto her hand tighter in a lame effort to anchor her there.

"Okay," she finally murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

Sherlock was surprised to hear her sounding so affected, especially after the withdrawn attitude she had taken on. He furrowed his brow and looked at her intently. Her eyes were cast downward, and there appeared to be tears threatening to spill over. He understood that her mask was cracking, that the hollowness she had put on herself was slowly being replied by a confused flurry of _feelings_. After the first tear slowly trickled down her cheek, she seemed incapable of holding it back any longer, and she began to sob in earnest.

Sherlock froze for a moment. He had never really had to comfort someone before, let alone someone he cared a great deal about. What if he screwed up somehow and made her feel worse? What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to say _anything_?

"Shh," he whispered quietly, tentatively extracting his hand from hers. He brought his arm around her and uncertainly rubbed soothing circles on her back. "Everything's alright now. You're safe. It's all over."

That didn't seem to help, and she cried a little harder. Sherlock was worried that his ineptitude at this sort of thing was doing more harm than good, and he slowly began to inch away. However, before he could move too far, Ellie wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled herself closer. She pressed her head against his shoulder and sobbed into his shirt. He hesitantly brought his other arm around her and embraced her, holding her securely against his chest.

Sherlock kissed the top of her head and said softly, "It's alright, Ellie. I've got you. You're safe now."

The two of them stayed like that for the rest of the night. Eventually, tired from the emotionally trying day, Ellie drifted off into some much needed sleep, using Sherlock's shoulder as a pillow. He smiled fondly down at her and allowed his eyes to shut as well as he, too, fell asleep.


	20. Chapter 20

Two days after The Incident, Sherlock went to visit John. The two friends had been texting back and forth since John had regained consciousness. Luckily, as Sherlock had suspected, the bullet hadn't caused any permanent damage, and the doctor would be released from the hospital shortly.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked as he sat by the plastic chair beside John's bed. He was aware that this was the standard questioned posed to those who were incarcerated in a hospital, and he really couldn't think of anything else to say besides that.

John shrugged. "Fine, I guess. I'm still really sore, and it aches really badly, but it's a hell of a lot better than it could have been had that guy been a better shot."

Sherlock averted his gaze, unwilling to entertain the possibility of the grimmer reality to which John was referring. If the Terror had actually shot to _kill _rather than to merely incapacitate…

"So," John said, cutting off Sherlock's train of thought. "How's Ellie doing?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "She's…better, I suppose. It's really hard to tell sometimes. She doesn't really like to talk about it, but everyone keeps telling me that she _needs _to talk about it before she can completely move on. I'm not exactly sure what to do. Am I supposed to push her into confronting the issue? Or do I give her the space and time necessary to work it out on her own?"

John looked thoughtful. "That's quite a dilemma," he commented.

Sherlock nodded. "Quite, but luckily I've been spared from making that decision for the time being."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, Lestrade came over last night and announced that he had made an appointment for Ellie to go see your old therapist. He made a little speech about how she needed to discuss what happened to her in order to fully recover. Surprisingly, Ellie agreed to it. That's where she is right now."

"That's good then…isn't it?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I suppose…"

John let out a light chuckle. "You don't sound so convinced."

Sherlock was staring intently down at the floor, clearly trying to work something out in his own mind. "It's just…I guess I'm sort of upset that she couldn't talk to _me _about it. I mean, I'm always there for her, and she must know that by now. Why didn't she feel that she could talk to me about what's going on? I don't know…I guess I'm just being rather selfish about it all."

John grinned at his friend. "I understand. It's actually rather sweet."

Sherlock's head snapped up and he made a face. "_Sweet_? I distinctly remember you telling me that stuff like that is _selfish_, not sweet."

"Well, that's when you want to do things like monopolize someone's time or take over their personal life," John explained. "This is different."

"How? I want to monopolize her trust—that's selfish."

John shook his head, an amused smile still lighting his face. "No, Sherlock, from what you've been saying, you're not trying to monopolize her trust; you just want to be certain you have it. You didn't seem very opposed to the idea of her seeing my therapist, but what really bothered you was that she hadn't felt that she could talk to you about everything. There's the difference—you don't want to be the only person she trusts; you just want to make sure that she _does _trust you. So there: it's sweet, not selfish."

Sherlock scrunched his nose. "I'm not _sweet_."

John's grin grew a little more. "You are with her."

The consulting detective mulled over these words for awhile. "I guess she's just…different."

John leaned forward, ignoring how the new position made his wound ache. "Sherlock, don't freak out when I tell you this...but I think you might fancy Ellie."

Confusion seeped onto Sherlock's face. He cocked his head to the side and said, "What do you mean?"

John ran a hand through his hair. Explaining emotions to the world's only consulting detective was at the same level of difficulty as teaching a rock how to make tea. "How can I put this…you _like_ her, like her," he said, using the simplest terms possible.

"…I don't even know what that means."

John sighed. "Let's try it a different way: you've got _feelings _for her."

"Of course I do," Sherlock replied shortly. "I've got feelings for a lot of people. That's what human interaction is—just a bunch of feelings."

John rolled his eyes. "That's not what I meant. You've got _romantic _feelings for her."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but he stopped himself before any words came out. He was quiet for a moment, analyzing his friend's words. "What exactly does that entail?" he finally asked.

John was struck with how new this must all be for Sherlock. The man had spent almost all of his life being called a freak, and he had been pushing people away because being alone was all he had, being alone kept him safe. But now, things had changed. Sherlock was no longer a cold, distant machine. He had friends, people he cared about, people who cared about him. He wasn't alone anymore.

"Sherlock, do you appreciate Ellie's company more than that of other people?" John asked slowly.

"Yes, but that doesn't really prove much. I also appreciate your company and Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's."

"Alright…well, do you crave physical contact with her?"

Sherlock thought back to their hand-holding, and to the gentle kisses he had pressed to her cheek, her forehead, her hair, and to the embrace that they had found themselves in two days prior. "I…yes, I guess so."

John nodded, pleased. "Right, and do you feel more emotionally connected to her?"

"What exactly does that mean?" Sherlock recalled all those instances in which Ellie had truly _understood_ him. That was surely an emotional connection. He remembered how she had comforted him after Natalie Calhoun's murder, how he had allowed her to see him at his most vulnerable. That was also an undeniable bond. Before John could elaborate on what he was asking, Sherlock replied, "Yes, I do."

John had a soft smile on his lips as he observed his friend. "And if you weren't here right now, and if Ellie weren't at her appointment, where would you want to be?"

Sherlock's eyes had a far-off look in them as he replied, "I'd want to be at home, with Ellie."

"What would you want to be doing?" John prompted. "Watching telly? Working on another case? What?"

Sherlock shook his head lightly. "It wouldn't really matter. I'd just like to be with her." He went through all his stored data on emotional interactions between people, and he compared his feelings to those he had observed or read about in others. After a long pause, he said softly, "It appears that I rather fancy Ellie." He looked up at John and added, "Well, this is new."


	21. Chapter 21

**We're coming up on the end of this story. It's been a real pleasure to write, and I think I'll have just one more chapter after this one.**

**I really enjoyed writing this, and I've found that I'm rather eager to write another story similar to this. It'll be another Sherlock/OC, but there'll be a different OC, and John will be in the next one a lot more. If you'd be interested in reading another story from me, I'd appreciate you checking it out when I publish it. Also, if you have any name suggestions for my next OC, I'd be eternally grateful. Names are a lot harder for me to come up with than I'd like.**

**Alright, well, please remember to review this chapter, and I hope you've enjoyed the story thus far!**

While Sherlock visited John in the hospital, Ellie walked uncertainly into the office of Dr. Ella Thompson. Lestrade had barged into the flat yesterday and all but demanded that Ellie go visit the therapist to "talk things over." It wasn't that Ellie had any sort of aversion to discussing what happened to her. In fact, she'd been thinking that a good long discussion was just what she needed. However, she had rather been hoping that Sherlock would be the one with whom she would have this conversation. She had been waiting for him to bring it up, but he hadn't mentioned the Terror case at all, and he hadn't given the slightest indication that he was available should she ever need to talk. So, rather than waiting around for Sherlock to broach the topic, she decided to keep the appointment that Lestrade had made for her.

That was how she came to be standing at the door to Dr. Thompson's office, smiling hesitantly at the woman sitting in the middle of the room.

"You must be Ellie Archer," Thompson greeted pleasantly, flipping to a new page in the notebook that rested on her legs. "Please, take a seat."

Ellie sat down in the chair opposite the therapist's.

"So," Thompson said, "would you like to tell me what it is that brings you here?"

"What is it exactly that you want to know?"

"I want to know your story."

"Well, you've heard about the London Terror, right? The man who killed all those women?" Ellie asked. Thompson didn't respond, just tilted her head to the side. "Well, there was this guy—a serial killer—who murdered women because he got off on their fear. It's twisted and sick and the psycho got what he deserved. Anyway, he targeted me." She paused for a moment before adding, "But I guess it starts before all of that. My story goes back to when I first met Sherlock Holmes."

So Ellie told her story. She talked about Matthew Lawrence and dinner at that fancy Italian restaurant, about those first texts from Sherlock, about their first crime scene together, about the cryptic notes and the woman on the Tube, about the dead honey-stealer and "American Pie," about receiving a scarecrow's head and fearing for her life, and about how Sherlock had been there to save her.

When Ellie had finished her lengthy narrative, Thompson asked, "Why did you look so unsettled when you talked about your fear?"

Ellie offered the therapist a tired grin. "You noticed that? Well, I guess it's just that I could've been stronger or braver. I could've fought back."

"Why would you say that? The Terror was an armed man, and you were defenseless. He was going to kill you, and you couldn't find a way out. That certainly sounds like a situation in which fear would be completely justifiable."

Ellie shrugged. "But back when Sherlock and I first met with the Matthew Lawrence case, I punched Lawrence in the face when he came toward me with a knife, and I later prevented him from making a run for it. I just don't understand why I couldn't have done that with the Terror."

"What do you think stopped you from fighting back the way you did with Lawrence?"

"I'm not sure. I guess I had Sherlock with me on the Lawrence thing, and I was alone with the Terror. I suppose it's easier to be brave when you have others with you. With the Terror, no one was with me, and I was sure that no one would find me. I thought I was going to die. It's much more difficult to ignore fear when you're facing mortality all by yourself."

Thompson nodded, seemingly pleased. "That's a very accurate assessment." She scribbled something down in her notebook. "You've got to accept what you've just told me, Ellie. Everything that you said about being alone versus having someone to back you up—that's all completely true. No one expects you to be brave all the time, especially not when you're faced with something as terrifying as a serial killer with a weapon. The fear that you felt is nothing to be ashamed of. It's natural, normal. In fact, I would've been _worried_ had you said that you weren't afraid at all."

"Oh…okay then," Ellie mumbled. She wasn't sure what exactly to say. Thompson's words made sense—she had been exhibiting the normal response to this type of situation. She hadn't been doing anything wrong or disappointing anyone by fearing for her life. No one was disappointed in her for not fighting back or for feeling scared. _Then why, _Ellie asked herself, _do I feel like I should be embarrassed by it all?_

"What is it?" Thompson inquired.

"What's what?" Ellie replied, playing dumb.

"Whatever it is that you're thinking about. I can see that you still have some reservations about accepting that your reaction was normal. Why is that? What is it that you were just thinking?"

Ellie sighed. This woman was certainly observant. "It's just that I feel like I've let someone down by being afraid or by not doing more to resist."

"And who do you think you'll be letting down?"

Ellie ran a hand through her light hair. "I don't know," she said, though it came out sounding more like a whine.

"Think, Ellie," Thompson pushed. "Who is it that you feel you need to be brave for?"

"It's not that I feel I _need _to be brave for someone; it's just that I feel like he _expects _me to be brave," she explained.

Thompson raised an eyebrow. "So it's a man then." Upon receiving Ellie's questioning glance, she said, "You said that you feel like _he _expects this of you."

"Oh…I suppose I did say that."

"Well, may I venture a guess as to who this man is? I'm assuming it's Sherlock Holmes. Am I right?"

Ellie thought this over for awhile. She replied, sounding almost a bit dazed, "Yes, I guess you are right." It was strange to hear it said aloud, that she wanted Sherlock to perceive her as brave, but as Ellie mulled this over, she couldn't help but feel that it all made sense. "Anyone who meets Sherlock can't deny that he's absolutely brilliant. He's incredibly intelligent and observant, and it's just magnificent to watch him work. When you're with him, you feel overshadowed because you can never be as brilliant or observant or magnificent as he is. But I don't mind him overshadowing me, because I understand that that's just what Sherlock does. Still, I wanted to have this one strong point; I wanted him to see me as brave, and I think I wanted that so badly that he eventually expected me to be some sort of badass based on how I acted."

"Why did you feel the need to make him think you were brave?"

"Because Sherlock's got so many astounding qualities, and I've got really nothing going for me. Courage—I've always had a pretty good supply of that, and I guess that's the only exceptional trait I had. But with the Terror, I wasn't brave, and that's understandable and normal, but there lies the problem—I can't be _normal_. I need Sherlock to see me as a step above normal."

"And why is that?"

Ellie was looking with unfocused eyes at some point on the floor. "Sherlock can't be bothered to deal with normal people. If I'm normal, he's got no use for me. If I'm normal, I hold no appeal to him."

Thompson glanced at her patient with something akin to pity. "You seem to have some very strong feelings for him."

Ellie's head snapped up. She seemed to become more defensive. "I suppose so."

"And what exactly _are _these strong feelings you have for him?"

Ellie narrowed her eyes at the therapist. "I came here to talk about the trauma I experienced, not about my personal life."

Thompson nodded. "Of course. But it seems to me that you're working through that trauma all by yourself. From what you've said so far, it appears as though you are very in touch with yourself. You are very self-aware, and that will help you immensely in the recovery process. In my professional opinion, you've said all that you needed to say to me on that matter, and the rest will heal with some time." Thompson looked at Ellie with some seriousness in her expression. "But throughout our whole interview, you've brought up Sherlock countless times. He obviously means a lot to you, and it's clear that you have some unresolved feelings for him, and I think it would be best to sort those out."

"I've brought up Sherlock because he's a big part of my life," Ellie replied in a low voice. "There's nothing 'unresolved' about it."

Thompson raised an eyebrow and gave her a look that said, "Who are you kidding?"

Ellie sighed and acquiesced. "Fine, then how exactly do you suggest I resolve these feelings?"

"You can start by telling me exactly what Sherlock Holmes is to you."

Ellie pondered this. "That's quite a complicated request. He's my flat-mate and my best friend and my partner. I'm his assistant and I follow him around giving him compliments."

That had not been the answer that Thompson had been looking for. She decided to take a different approach. "Do you trust him?"

"Completely," Ellie responded without hesitation.

"Good. Does he trust you?"

Ellie recalled his vulnerability after Calhoun's murder. "Yes, I believe he does."

"Do you two get along well?"

"I guess so. We do fine on most days, but we had one pretty nasty fight a little while back. We got over it pretty quick though."

Thompson jotted something down in her notebook. "Alright. Now, are you attracted to him?"

Ellie was slightly taken aback by this question. "Erm, well, on a physical level? Yes, if I'm being completely honest, I am. He's very odd-looking, but after you've spent some time with him, it's impossible not to think of him as an incredibly attractive man."

_Now we're getting somewhere_, Thompson thought. "And how about on an emotional level?"

Ellie furrowed her brow, wondering how to best respond to that question. "Well, we're about as close emotionally as any other friends, if that's what you mean."

"Are you sure it's not a little bit _more _than friendship? You can be entirely open with me here, Ellie."

Ellie thought about this. She remembered how, after their fight, when Sherlock had come to fetch her from John's house, her heart had fluttered at the sound of his voice. That, surely, was not a normal, platonic response to hearing a friend's voice. And later, when he had pecked her on the cheek for the first time, she had been entirely too pleased with that for a typical friendship. There were little things, littered throughout their acquaintance, that were a bit too much for a platonic relationship.

_I've got a crush on Sherlock Holmes_, she thought. And as soon as she admitted it to herself, she saw just how true that statement was. There was no way to deny it any longer.

"I've got some major feelings for Sherlock," she mumbled quietly. "How the hell did I never realize this before?"

"Perhaps you realized it but didn't truly accept it," Thompson suggested.

Ellie nodded. She had a look of distant concentration on her face as she asked, "What the hell do I do now? I mean, I guess I could just ignore it. That wouldn't be too hard, but it's probably not the best long-term solution."

Thompson smiled. "John mentioned once that Sherlock's brain is like a hard-drive from which memories and information can either be stored or deleted. I suggest you tell Sherlock how you feel. Worst case, he can delete it, forget you said anything, and things will go back to normal. It's all very low-risk, if you think about it, and I don't see any reason _not _to."

"Okay," Ellie said with a dazed quality to her voice. She chuckled. "This is so weird. It's entirely possible that I'm falling for a sociopath…and I'm going to tell him."


	22. Chapter 22

**Well, this is it: the end! It's been such a joy writing this, and I'm really sad to see it come to a close. Anyway, all stories must end eventually, and that just means that I'll be able to work on the next Sherlock/OC that I've been thinking about.**

**On that note, thank you to xXxCastielxXx and Al's Turtle who have given me some great suggestions for names for my next OC. I really appreciate it! And if any of you other readers have suggestions as well, I'd love to hear them.**

**Well, without further ado, I give you the final chapter:**

Sherlock arrived back from his visit with John feeling…_confused_. He had no idea how to proceed. After all, romance and attraction were not his forte. He pulled out his mobile and texted John, who had probably already had his fix of Sherlock Holmes for one day. Still, Sherlock reminded himself, this was very important, so John would just have to deal with it.

_I need help_._ SH_

_Yes, yes, you do. JW_

_Very funny. This is about the whole situation with Ellie. SH_

_I thought we already had this all figured out. You fancy her, and she obviously fancies you. What's the problem? JW_

_What do I do? SH_

_Do something nice for her. Clean up the flat, make her tea, something she'll appreciate. Soften her up a bit, then sit her down and tell her, "Ellie, I think I might fancy you." JW_

_What if she rejects that? I'm not sure I'm ready to take that risk. SH_

_Sherlock, have you seen the way that girl looks at you? Trust me, she won't reject you. JW_

Sherlock sighed, tossing his phone on the sofa and pacing across the room. He didn't feel very reassured, despite all that John had said. There was an irrational sort of fear building up inside him, and he wasn't exactly sure how to get rid of it. Perhaps he should just ignore these feelings. He'd obviously entertained this little crush for awhile now without realizing it, and he and Ellie had gotten on fine. It wouldn't be that difficult to just push aside this new emotional entanglement and to keep things the way they were before.

"No, no, no," Sherlock mumbled to himself. He was selfish by nature, and he loathed the thought of any other man making a pass at Ellie. He wanted to keep her for himself.

His mobile dinged as he received another text.

_I know you're trying to talk yourself out of this. Don't. Sherlock, go for it. JW_

Another message arrived about a minute later.

_I'd listen to Dr. Watson if I were you. MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and punched out a reply—_Mycroft, mind your own damn business. SH_—before tossing the device back on the sofa and resuming his pacing.

He made up his mind and began to hurriedly attempt to tidy up the flat. Thanks to Ellie's nearly neurotic cleaning, it was already in fairly good shape. Sherlock merely had to shove a few papers back in their rightful spots and straighten up a stack of books before his task was finished. With that completed, he moved into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He knew that Ellie would be back from her appointment with the therapist soon, and when she arrived, he would have a cup of tea ready for her.

While he waited for the water to boil, Sherlock attempted to go over what he was going to say. John's suggestion of, "Ellie, I think I might fancy you," seemed a bit unsatisfactory, but he was at a loss on how to improve that statement.

Before he could come up with an appropriate speech, the front door opened, and soon he heard Ellie entering the flat.

"Sherlock, are you here?" she called.

"In the kitchen," he replied, his voice sounding gruff and awkward even to his own ears. He cleared his throat when she walked into the small kitchen. "I was just, er, making you some tea."

She smiled. "That's sweet."

He recalled his earlier conversation with John.

_"I'm not _sweet_."_

_ "You are with her."_

Sherlock cleared his throat again and shook his head slightly to snap out of his thoughts. "Erm, right…"

Thankfully, the kettle sang at that moment to announce that the water was ready, and Sherlock was spared from having to start this undoubtedly awkward conversation right then. As he prepared her tea, Ellie made her way into the living room and sat toward the middle of the sofa. Sherlock followed shortly after and handed her the mug.

He was faced with an unexpected decision: where to sit. Ellie was not on her usual side of the couch, and instead, she occupied a space that was much nearer to the center. If Sherlock sat on the far side, in his usual spot, there would still be quite a comfortable distance between the two of them. However, if he chose to mirror her actions and sit toward the middle, they would be much closer, and he very much desired to be close to her. Would she reject such an advance? Or did her change in position mean that she, too, longed for proximity?

_Life was never this complicated before_, Sherlock thought bitterly.

He opted for a spot that was halfway between her and his usual placement. He looked over at her to find that she was smiling gently at him, delicately sipping her tea.

_She's really quite attractive_, his brain decided to inform him.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" she asked. "You look a bit nervous."

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. I've just…got a lot on my mind," he replied, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.

Ellie nodded, understanding. "Me too, I guess. It's certainly been an _interesting _day."

Sherlock smiled wryly. _If she only knew just how _interesting_ it's been…_

Minutes passed in silence as the two were wrapped up in their own private thoughts. Eventually, Ellie finished her tea and placed the mug on the nearby table. She turned her body toward Sherlock so that she was facing him completely. He copied her actions and felt that now was the time to make his move.

However, before Sherlock could get a word out, Ellie said, "Listen, Sherlock, I've got something I want to talk to you about."

He looked at her seriously, wondering, as he always did when she said they needed to talk, if she was going to be moving out. Her smile (still in place), the warmth in her eyes, and the fact that her hand reached out to cover his all proved that she was _not, _in fact, going to be leaving anytime soon.

"Well, there's something I'd like to discuss with you as well," he said. He turned his hand up so that their palms were pressed together. He attempted to get his courage up, to tell her what he'd come to realize.

When he finally felt brave enough to actually spit it out, Ellie interrupted him with her own news. "Sherlock, I know your brain's a hard-drive and you can delete stuff, so if this isn't what you want to hear, could you just—"

"EllieIthinkImightfancyyou," Sherlock declared in a quick slur of words. He was afraid that if he waited any longer, he would lose his nerve. He'd never done something quite like that before, and he was even more terrified now that the statement had come out.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Ellie asked softly.

Sherlock looked down at their hands as he replied, very slowly, "Ellie, I think I might fancy you."

There was an excruciatingly long pause in which she remained silent, but Sherlock was too afraid to look up and gauge her expression. "You _think_ you might fancy me?" she finally asked.

He sighed and his stomach clenched nervously. "I _know_ I fancy you. Ellie, I've got romantic feelings for you."

Another pause…and then, she laughed. Sherlock's gut churned uneasily at the sound. _She's laughing at me_, he thought. _I never should've said anything. I'm such a bloody idiot!_ He was embarrassed and humiliated and somewhat heartbroken. He began to withdraw his hand from hers, prepared to run off into his room and delete the entire day from his memory.

Ellie grabbed onto his hand with a firm grip. Her other hand went to his face, and she stroked one of those high cheekbones with her thumb. Sherlock slowly looked up at her, and she was still smiling pleasantly. When he met her gaze, she immediately saw how hurt and embarrassed he had been, and her eyes seemed to soften as she sought to remedy that.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Laughter was probably _not _the response you'd wanted," she said gently. "It's just that…well, it's kind of funny, if you think about it."

"I'm glad my _feelings_"—he said the word in the tone of disgust that was usually reserved for things such as Anderson—"amuse you." Again he made an attempt to pull away.

"No, you don't," she said, keeping a tight grip on his hand. She moved her other hand away from his cheek and to the back of his neck, holding him firmly in place. "Sherlock, let me explain. It's funny because I came in here wanting to tell you the exact same thing."

He stared at her, his brow furrowed. There was confusion and just a little bit of hope in his expression.

Ellie's tender smile grew and she said, "Sherlock Holmes, I've got romantic feelings for you, too."

The look of shock on Sherlock's face was absolutely priceless, and slowly, that surprise faded away, and Sherlock broke out in a wide, happy grin. Ellie giggled slightly at his almost _goofy _expression (how many people had actually seen the great Sherlock Holmes looking goofy?) and she scooted closer.

Sherlock's grin remained in place, and he seemed to be absorbing what had just happened. He replayed their conversation over and over and over again, committing it to memory. _This is fantastic_, he thought.

Ellie could tell that Sherlock was unsure as to what to do next, so she decided to take the initiative. She moved closer to him and leaned forward, bringing their faces a mere inch apart.

"Sherlock," she said quietly, her breath ghosting across his face.

Sherlock could feel his heartbeat spiking. "Y-yes?"

"Do you want this? A relationship, I mean. Because, right now, that's what I'm offering. I understand if you don't, but—"

Sherlock cut her off by closing the gap between them and pressing his lips to hers.

Three thoughts went through his head at that moment: _her lips are really soft; we should've done this a long time ago; _and _I'm completely inexperienced with stuff like this._

He looked down and saw that Ellie's eyes were closed, and he allowed his to flutter shut as well. She began to move her lips against his, and he copied the movement, noticing just how _nice _it felt. It was a fairly chaste kiss, but both Ellie and Sherlock felt that it was absolutely _brilliant_.

Ellie pulled back slightly, smiling and looking ridiculously happy.

Sherlock grinned and he felt warm and fluttery, which was not something he was in any way used to feeling. "That was a yes, by the way," he said after a moment. "Yes, I'd love to be in a relationship with you."

Ellie initiated the kiss this time. It was difficult at first, with both of them smiling so widely, but eventually, it turned into something with more passion than before. Mouths opened, tongues explored, and Sherlock followed Ellie's lead the whole time, learning with alarming frequency. She had to admit that Sherlock, even with his lack of experience, was a rather fabulous kisser.

After quite some time, they pulled away, both feeling slightly dizzy from a lack of oxygen.

"This is amazing," Sherlock muttered breathlessly.

Ellie curled up against his side, and he put his arm around her, keeping her close. "I agree," she replied softly.

Silence stretched on for awhile.

"This'll be difficult, you know," Sherlock mumbled, breaking the quiet. "I'm not the easiest person to get along with, and I have absolutely no relationship experience whatsoever, and I can't really change who I am."

"I've lived with you for awhile now. I know you can be difficult, and I've accepted that about you. Besides, I would never want you to change. I like you just the way you are." Ellie nuzzled her head into Sherlock's shoulder. "Honestly, I know it'll be difficult, but not much will really change, will it? We'll still be living together; we'll still solve crimes and chase criminals; you'll still refuse to do the shopping and use my stuff without asking; the only difference is that now there'll be a hell of a lot more kissing and such."

Sherlock placed a kiss on the top of her head. "Ellie?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For all of this."

Ellie smiled. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You're welcome." She craned her neck up and kissed his cheek. Before she could move her head back down to its spot on his shoulder, he turned his head and captured her lips in another kiss.

Sherlock grinned as he pulled away. "I could really get used to this."

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you all enjoyed the ending! Thank you so much for reading this story through to the end. Please review and let me know what you thought of this chapter or of the story as a whole!<strong>


	23. Chapter 23

**Al's Turtle gave me the idea for this little epilogue. Thanks Al for the prompt! Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this extra little snippet.**

Nearly two months had passed since Sherlock and Ellie had begun their romantic relationship. They hadn't exactly told anyone about it yet, though Lestrade had very clear suspicions. Mrs. Hudson discovered their status as a couple when she walked in on Ellie and Sherlock curled up together on the sofa, cuddling. John was well aware of the relationship as well (and he often reminded them that he was the one who orchestrated their first meeting). It wasn't as if they were trying to _hide _the romantic attachment that had been sparked between them. Honestly, no one knew simply because no one ever really bothered to ask.

That all changed, however, after a particularly unexceptional case. Some random thug had shot and killed his business partner. It had taken Sherlock all of three hours to deduce just who the murderer was. Jason Hamilton—a twenty-eight-year-old washout who had recently taken to running a series of rather simple-minded scams with Roger Barker, the victim. Sherlock, Ellie, and the Yarders had managed to chase Hamilton into a large warehouse, filled with crates and cargo containers. This made it difficult to pinpoint the exact location of the man they were pursuing, so they all split up, cautiously weaving through the many crates and containers in an attempt to locate the suspect.

Ellie slowly poked her head around one large container, wondering if Sherlock was any closer to finding this guy than she was. It was a maze in the warehouse, and it could have taken quite awhile to finally capture Hamilton.

Suddenly, Sherlock's voice rang throughout the building. "Found him!" he shouted.

Ellie was already running toward him when she heard it.

A gunshot.

It was deafening as it echoed in the maze of containers. With that one sound, Ellie felt panic like she had never before experienced. Sherlock hadn't brought a gun, which meant that it must've been the killer's weapon that had fired the shot. He had fired at Sherlock.

Images of his crumpled, bleeding body sprang to the forefront of her mind, and she redoubled her efforts and sprinted even faster toward where Sherlock was. She rounded a corner and saw Lestrade handcuffing Hamilton. Ellie's eyes immediately darted toward Sherlock, lying there on the floor. At first, she assumed the worst, but, thankfully, he lifted his head off the ground and looked dazedly around him.

He was absolutely fine.

"You bastard!" she shouted, walking over toward Sherlock and kneeling down beside him. "You complete and utter bastard! How could you go and do something like that? You could've been killed!"

Donovan, who was standing beside Lestrade and intently eavesdropping, muttered to the DI, "Do you think she'll finally leave him now? It's for her own good."

Lestrade merely shook his head. He could tell that Ellie wasn't truly angry by the way her voice had cracked on the word "killed." She had been worried, and she was upset, but she most certainly wasn't angry.

"I-I'm sorry," Sherlock replied, still looking a bit confused. The bullet had missed his head by an inch, and it was imbedded in the concrete floor right next to him. It was strange to have been confronted with death so suddenly, and he wasn't processing the situation as quickly as he would have liked.

"Damn right you're sorry," Ellie said, hitting him in the chest. There was no real power behind the blow, and Sherlock reached out to hold her hand to his chest, right above his slightly erratically-beating heart. "Don't you dare do that again. You bastard! How could you have let this happen? God, I hate you. How could you worry me like that? I really, really hate you."

Even as Ellie spoke these words, the fight went out of her. A few tears trickled down her cheeks, and she tucked her head against Sherlock's chest. She had been so worried, and it was terrifying to think how close she'd come to losing him, just because he'd decided to take on Hamilton by himself.

Sherlock reached his arm up and pulled her close. He pressed kisses to her hair and whispered what he assumed were soothing words in her ear.

"Do you really hate me?" he asked softly after awhile.

Ellie shook her head. "No…God, I could never hate you. I love you, Sherlock. I could never hate you," she mumbled into his chest.

Sherlock's heart stuttered as those words escaped her lips. That was the first time she had actually said that she loved him. From all the movies and crap telly he had seen, he had always assumed that the first declaration of love was supposed to be dramatic and frightening and _colossal_. But Ellie simply allowed the words to slip out…it felt almost natural.

Sherlock smiled. "Love you, too," he murmured back. He lifted her head up so that they were at eye level with one another. "I promise to never do something that idiotic again."

And then, he kissed her. It was sweet and chaste, very much like their first kiss—it was perfect.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Donovan shouted, causing the couple to break apart. "Why are _you_"—she gestured wildly in Ellie's direction—"kissing _him_?"

Ellie cocked her head to the side and smiled slightly. "Well, I guess it's not really a secret anymore, is it?" she said to Sherlock. Then, turning back to the very confused Donovan, she explained, "We're in a relationship…obviously, and it's going quite nicely—not that it's any of your business."

Donovan's mouth opened and closed a few times in what Sherlock assumed was a rather poor imitation of a fish. "But he's a psychopath! Why are you dating a psychopath?"

Ellie's eyes suddenly flashed dangerously. "We've been over this, Donovan. Sherlock is not, and has never been, a psychopath or a freak or any of those other awful things you call him. We're dating because he's bloody fantastic, and honestly, you'd be lucky to spend as much time with him as I do. Now, if you're done gaping like a retarded goldfish, Sherlock and I will just be on our way."

She stood up and forced Sherlock to his feet. He had another one of those goofy grins on his face, and seeing that expression on a supposed sociopath caused Donovan to flounder even more. Ellie and Sherlock walked out together, hand-in-hand, smiling at each other the whole way out.

"What has the world come to?" Donovan asked quietly. "I honestly don't understand anything anymore."

Lestrade, who had observed this whole exchange without interfering, continued to ignore Sally. In his opinion, Sherlock and Ellie were the cutest damn couple he'd ever seen.


End file.
